GIFT  OF 
A.   F.   Morrison 


'  For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 
Her  childish  favor  singled."— Page  252. 


THE    COMPLETE 


POETICAL  WOEKS 


OF 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


WITH    NUMEROUS    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES    R.   OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOB  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD  &  Co. 

1876. 


GIFT  OF 


COPYRIGHT,  184S,  1850,  ia52,  1856,  1857,  I860,  f863*  1&65*  186^,  1868,  1870,  1872,  1874,  AND  1876,  BY 


co., 

JAHE&  B*  eSOoB  tfc'tfO.,       b'JOHN      .6WHITTIER. 


JOHN  F.  TROW  &  SON. 

PRINTF.RS  AND  ELEOTROTYPERS, 

205-213  East  12«A  »%., 

NEW  YORK. 


PS  32  50 


NOTE  BY  THE   AUTHOR 

TO  THE  EDITION   OF   1857. 

IN  these  volumes,  for  the  first  time,  a  complete  collection  of  my  poetical  writings  has  been 
made.  While  it  is  satisfactory  to  know  that  these  scattered  children  of  my  brain  have  found  a 
home,  I  cannot  but  regret  that  I  have  been  unable,  by  reason  of  illness,  to  give  that  attention 
to  their  revision  and  arrangement,  which  respect  rfor  the  opinions  of  others  and  my  own  after 
thought  and  experience  demand. 

That  there  are  pieces  in  this  collection  which  I  would  "willingly  let  die,"  I  am  free  to  con 
fess.  But  it  is  now  too  late  to  disown  them,  and  I  must  submit  to  the  inevitable  penalty  of 
poetical  as  well  as  other  sins.  There  are  others,  intimately  connected  with  the  author's  life  and 
times,  which  owe  their  tenacity  of  vitality  to  the  circumstances  under  which  they  were  written, 
and  the  events  by  which  they  were  suggested. 

The  long  poem  of  Mogg  Megone  was  in  a  great  measure  composed  in  early  life ;  and  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  its  subject  is  not  such  as  the  writer  would  have  chosen  at  any 
subsequent  period. 

J.  G.  W. 

AMESBURY,  ISth  3d  mo.,  1857. 


M105027 


PEOEM. 


I  LOVE  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning  dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try  ; 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 

In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers. 
And  drink  with  glad  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 

Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 
Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife,  are  her; 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies  ; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 

Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 
The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind ; 

To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 

Oar  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 
A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown  ; 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 

O  Freedom  !  if  to  me  belong 
Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvell's  wit  and  graceful  song, 

Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 
As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy  shrine  I 


AMESBTJKTT,  lltk  mo,, 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
MOGG  MEGOKE. 

Part  I.  .  .  11 

Part  II  ......................  15 

PartHI  ................  .  ............  18 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 

I.     The  Merrimack  ................  22 

II.     The  Bashaba  ..................  2:2 

III.     The  Daughter  .................  23 

iv.     The  Wedding  .................  24 

v.     The  New  Home  ................  24 

VI.     At  Pennacook  ................  25 

Vll.     The  Departure  ................  26 

VIII.     Song  of  Indian  Women  ........  36 

LEGENDARY. 

The  Merrimack  ......................  26 

The  Norsemen  .......................  27 

Cassandra  Southwick  ................  28 

Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis  ..........  31 

St.  John  ............................  31 

Pentucket  ...........................  32 

The  Familist's  Hymn  ................  33 

The  Fountain  .......................  34 

The  Exiles  .........................  35 

The  New  Wife  and  the  Old  ..........  36 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture  ...............     38 

The  Slave-Ships  .....................     39 

Stanzas.  Our  Fellow-Countrymen  in 

Chains  ............................     40 

The  Yankee  Girl  ......  '  ...............     42 

To  W.  L.  G  .........................     42 

Song  of  the  Free  .....................     42 

The  Hunters  of  Men  .................     43 

Clerical  Oppressors  ..................     43 

The  Christian  Slave  ..................     44 

Stanzas  for  the  Times  ................     44 

Lines,  written  on  Reading  the  Message 

of  Governor  Ritner,  of  Pennsylvania, 

1836  .............................    .     45 

The  Pastoral  Letter  ..................     46 

Lines,  written  for  the  Meeting  of  the 

Anti-Slavery    Society,  at   Chatham 

St.  Chapel,  N.  Y.,  1834  ............     47 

Lines,  written  for  the  Celebration  of 

the  Third    Anniversary  of    British 

Emancipation,  1837 


Lines,  written  for  the  Anniversary  of 

the  First  of  August,  at  Milton,  1846    47 
The  Farewell  of  a  Virginia  Slave  Mo 
ther   to    her    Daughters   sold    into 

Southern  Bondage 48 

The  Moral  Warfare 49 

The  World's  Convention 49 

New  Hampshire 51 


PAGE 

The  New  Year  :  addressed  to  the  Pat 
rons  of  the  Pennsylvania  Freeman. .  51 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia 52 

The  Relic 54 

The  Branded  Hand 54 

Texas 55 

To  Faneuil  Hall 56 

To  Massachusetts 56 

The  Pine-Tree 57 

Lines,  suggested  by  a  Visit  to  the  City 
of  Washington  in  the  12th  month  of 

1845 57 

Lines,  from  a  Letter  to  a  young  Cleri 
cal  Friend 58 

Yorktown 59 

Lines,  written  in  the  Book  of  a  Friend  59 

Paean 60 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Shipley. . .  61 

To  a  Southern  Statesman 61 

Lines,  on  the  Adoption  of  Pinckney's 

Resolutions 62 

The  Curse  of  the  Charter-Breakers. . .  62 

The  Slaves  of  Martinique 63 

The  Crisis 64 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  Knight  of  St.  John 65 

The  Holy  Land 66 

Palestine 66 

Ezekiel 67 

The  Wife  of  Manoah  to  her  Husband..  68 

The  Cities  of  the  Plain 69 

The  Crucifixion 69 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem 69 

Hymns 70 

The  Female  Martyr 71 

The  Frost  Spirit 72 

The  Vaudois  Teacher 73 

The  Call  of  the  Christian 73 

My  Soul  and  1 73 

To  a    Friend,   on    her    Return    from 

Europe 75 

The  Angel  of  Patience 76 

Pollen 76 

To  the  Reformers  of  England 77 

The  Quaker  of  the  Olden  Tims 77 

The  Reformer 78 

The  Prisoner  for  Debt 78 

Lines,  written  on  Reading  Pamphlets 
published  by  Clergymen  against  the 

Abolition  of  the  Gallows. 79 

The  Human  Sacrifice 80 

Randolph  of  Roanoke 81 

Democracy . . . , 82 

To  Ronge 83 

Chalkley  Hall 83 

To  J.  P 84 

The  Cypress  Tree  of  Ceylon 84 

A  Dream  of  Summer 84 


CONTENTS. 


To 

Leggett's  Monument. 


SONGS  OF  LABOR,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Dedication 

The  Ship-Builders 


The  Shoemakers 

The  Drovers 

The  Fishermen 

The  Huskers 

The  Corn  Song 

The  Lumbermen 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


-The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista 

Forgiveness 

Barclay  of  Ury 

What  the  Voice  said 

To  Delaware 

Worship 

The  Demon  of  the  Study 

The  Pumpkin 

Extract  from  u  A  New  England  Le 
gend" 

Hampton  Beach 

Lines,  written  on  hearing  of  the  Death 
of  Silas  Wright,  of  New  York 

Lines,  accompanying  Manuscripts  pre 
sented  to  a  Friend 

The  Reward 

Raphael 

Lucy  Hooper 

Channing 

To  the  Memory  of  Charles  B.  Storrs. . 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  O.  Torrey . . . 

A  Lament 

Daniel  Wheeler 

Daniel  Neall 

To  my  Friend  on  the  Death  of  his  Sis 
ter 

Gone 

The  Lake-side 

The  Hill-top 

On  receiving  an  Eagle's  Quill  from 
Lake  Superior 

Memories 

The  Legend  of  St.  Mark 

The  Well  of  Loch  Maree 

To  my  Sister 

Autumn  Thoughts 

Calef  in  Boston— 1692 

To  Pius  IX 

Elliott , 

Ichabod 

The  Christian  Tourists 

The  Men  of  Old 

The  Peace  Convention  at  Brussels  .... 

The  Wish  of  To-Day 

Our  State 

All's  Well 

Seed-Time  and  Harvest 

To  A.  K.. 


93 
94 

95 
96 
96 
96 
97 
98 

98 
99 

100 

100 
100 
101 
101 
103 
103 
104 
104 
104 
105 

106 
106 
107 
107 

108 
108 
109 
110 
110 
110 
110 
111 
111 
112 
112 
112 
113 
114 
114 
114 
114 
115 


THE  CHAPEL    or   THE   HERMITS,   AND  OTHER 
POEMS. 

The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits 115 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Questions  of  Life 119 

The  Prisoners  of  Naples 120 

Moloch  in  State  Street 120 

The  Peace  of  Europe— 1852 121 

Wordsworth 121 

To 122 

In  Peace...  ..  122 


PAGE 

Benedicite  122 

Pictures 123 

Derne , 123 

Astrsea 124 

Invocation 124 

The  Cross 1 24 

Eva 125 

To  Fredrika  Bremer 1 25 

April 125 

Stanzas  for  the  Times— 1850 126 

A  Sabbath  Scene 126 

Remembrance 127 

The  Poor  Voter  on  Election  Day 128 

Trust 128 

Kathleen 128 

First-day  Thoughts 129 

Kossuth 129 

To  my  old  Schoolmaster 129 

THE  PANORAMA,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Panorama 131 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Summer  by  the  Lakeside 135 

The  Hermit  of  the  Thebaid 136 

Burns 137 

William  Forster 138 

Rantoul 139 

The  Dream  of  Pio  Nono 139 

Tauler 140 

Lines 141 

The  Voices 141 

The  Hero 142 

My  Dream 142 

The  Barefoot  Boy 143 

Flowers  in  Winter 144 

The  Rendition 144 

Lines 145 

The  Fruit-Gift 145 

A  Memory 1 45 

To  C.  S 146 

The  Kansas  Emigrants 146 

Song  of  Slaves  in  the  Desert 146 

Lines 146 

The  New  Exodus 1 47 

The  Haschish  . . . 147 

BALLADS. 

Mary  Garvin 148 

Maud  Muller 150 

The  Ranger 151 

LATER  POEMS. 

The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn. . .  .  153 


The  Mayflowers 

Burial  of  Barbour 

To  Pennsylvania 

The  Pass  of  the  Sierra 

The  Conquest  of  Finland  .... 

A  Lay  of  Old  Time 

What  of  the  Day  ? 

The  First  Flowers 

My  Namesake 


HOME  BALLADS. 


The  Witch's  Daughter 

The  Garrison  of  Cape  Ann 

The  Prophecy  of  Samuel  Sewall 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride 

Telling  the  Bees 

The  Sycamores 

The  Double-Headed  Snake  of  Newbury 

The  Swan  Song  of  Parson  Avery 

The  Truce  of  Piscataqua 

My  Playmate 


156 
156 

156 
157 
158 
158 
159 
159 
159 


161* 

163  ' 

164 

105 

167 

168 

169 

170 

170 

172 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 

The  Shadow  and  the  Light 

The  Gift  of  Tritemius 

The  Eve  of  Election 

The  Over-Heart 

In  Remembrance  of  Joseph  Sturge 

Trinitas 

The  Old  Burying-Ground 

Pipes  at  Lucknow 

My  Psalm 

Le  Marais  du  Cygne 

4i  The  Rock  "  in  El  Ghor 

On  a  Prayer-Book 

To  J.  T.  F 

The  Palm-Tree 

Lines  for  the  Burns  Festival 

The  Red  River  Voyageur 

Kenoza  Lake 

ToG.  B.  C 

The  Sisters .- 

Lines  for  an  Agricultural  Exhibition. 

The  Preacher 

The  Quaker  Alumni 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie 

From  Perugia 

For  an  Autumn  Festival . . 


IN  WAR  TIME. 

To  Samuel  E.  and  Harriet  W.  Sewall. 

Thy  Will  be  done 

A  Word  for  the  Hour 

"  Ein  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott " 

To  John  C.  Fremont 

The  Watchers 

To  Englishmen 

Astrsea  at  the  Capitol 

The  Battle  Autumn  of  1863 

Mithridates  at  Chios 

The  Proclamation 

Anniversary  Poem 

At  Port  Royal 

Barbara  Frietchie  . . 


173 

174 
174 
175 
176 
177 
177 
178 
179 
179 
180 
180 
181 
181 
182 
182 
182 
183 
183 
183 
184 
18(3 
188 
189 
190 


190 
190 
191 
191 
191 
192 
192 
193 
193 
194 
194 
194 
195 
196 


BALLADS. 


Cobbler  Keezar's  Vision . 

Amy  Wentworth 

The  Countess  . . 


197 
199 

201 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Naples.— 1860 ; 203 

The  Summons 203 

The  Waiting 203 

Mountain  Pictures : 

I.  Franconia  from    the  Pemigewas- 

set 204 

ii.  Monadnock  from  Wachuset 204 

Our  River 204 

Andrew  Rykman's  Prayer 205 

The  Cry  of  a  Lost  Soul 206 

Italy 207 

The  River  Path 207 

A  Memorial.     M.  A.  C 207 

Hymn  sung  at  Christmas  by  the  Scho 
lars  of  St.  Helena's  Island,  S.  C 208 

SNOW-BOUND— A  Winter  Idyl 209 

THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Tent  on  the  Beach 215 

The  Wreck  of  Rivermouth 216 

The  Grave  by  the  Lake 218 

The  Brother  of  Mercy 220 

The  Changeling * 221 

The  Maids  of  Attitash  „ . . .  . .  222 


PAGE 
^  Kallundborg  Church £23 

The  Dead  Ship  of  Harpswell 224 

^The  Palatine 225 

Abraham  Davenport 226 

NATIONAL  LYRICS. 

The  Mantle  of  St.  John  De  Matha   .      227 

What  the  Birds  said ^28 

Laus  Deo  !  229 

The  Peace  Autumn r;29 

To  the  Thirty-ninth  Congress  .......  230 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

The  Eternal  Goodness 230 

Our  Master 231 

The  Vanishers 232 

Revisited 233 

The  Common  Question 233 

Bryant  on  his  Birth-day 233 

Hymn  for  the  Opening  of  Thomas  Starr 

King's  House  of  Worship,  18(54.  234 

Thomas  Starr  King 234 

AMONG  THE  HILLS,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Prelude .235 

Among  the  Hills 236 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 
The  Clear  Vision . 


239 
240 
241 
241 
243 


244 
244 

:245 


The  Dole  of  Jarl  Thorkell 

The  Two  Rabbis 

The  Meeting 

The  Answer 

G.  L.  S 

Freedom  in  Brazil 

Divine  Compassion  .... 

Lines  on  a  Fly-leaf 

Hymn  for  the  House   of   Worship   at 
Georgetown 

MIRIAM,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


To  Frederick  A.  P.. Barnard 246 

Miriam 246 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Norembega 250 

Nauhaught,  the  Deacon 251 

In  School-Days 251 

Garibaldi   252 

After  Election 
My  Triumph 

The  Hive  at  Gettysburg 253 

Howard  at  Atlanta 253 

To  Lydia  Maria  Child ,254 

The  Prayer -Seeker J54 

POEMS  FOR  PUBLIC  OCCASIONS. 

A  Spiritual  Manifestation  255 

"The  Laurels" 256 

Hymn 256 

THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM,  AND  OTHER 
POEMS. 

Francis  Daniel  Pastorius 257 

Prelude 258 

The  Pennsylvania  Pilgrim 258 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  Pageant 263 

The  Singer 265 

Chicago 265 


CONTENTS. 


My  Birthday 2C6 

The  Brewing  of  Soma 266 

A  Woman 267 

Disarmament 267 

The  Robin 267 

The  Sisters 268 

Marguerite 268 

King  Volmer  and  Elsie 269 

The  Three  Bells 271 

HAZEL-BLOSSOMS. 

Prologue 271 

Sumner 272 

The  Prayer  of  Agassiz 274 

The  Friend's  Burial 275 

John  Underbill 275 

In  Quest 276 

A  Sea  Dream 277 

A  Mystery 278 

Conductor  Bradley 278 

Child-Songs 278 

The  Golden  Wedding  of  Lougwood 279 


PAGE 

Kinsman 280 

Vesta 280 

The  Healer        2SO 

A  Christmas  Carmen 280 

Hymn 281 

POEMS  BY  ELIZABETH  H.  WHITTIER. 

The  Dream  of  Argyle 2S1 

Lines  writen  on  the  Departure  of  Joseph 

Sturge 282 

John  Quincy  Adams 282 

Dr.  Kane  in  Cuba 283 

Lady  Franklin 283 

Night  and  Death 283 

The  Meeting  Waters 284 

The  Wedding  Veil 284 

Charity 284 

NOTES  . .  . .  285 


INDEX , 


295 


MOGQ  MEGO]NrE. 


1835. 

[The  story  of  MOGQ  MEGONE  has  been  considered  by  the  author  only  as  a  framework  for  sketches  of  the  scenery 
of  New  England,  and  of  its  early  inhabitants.  In  portraying  the  Indian  character,  he  has  followed,  as  closely  as 
his  story  would  admit,  the  rough  but  natural  delineations  of  Church,  Mayhew,  Charlevoix,  and  Roger  Williams ; 
and  in  so  doing  he  has  necessarily  discarded  much  of  the  romance  which  poets  and  novelists  have  thrown  around 
the  ill-fated  red  man.] 


PART  L 

WHO  stands  on  that  cliff,  like  a  figure  of  stone, 
Unmoving  and  tall  in  the  light  of  the  sky, 
Where  the  spray  of  the  cataract  sparkles  on 

high, 

Lonely  and  sternly,  save  Mogg  Megone  ?  l 
Close  to  the  verge  of  the  rock  is  he, 

While  beneath  him  the  Saco  its  work  is  doing, 
Hurrying  down  to  its  grave,  the  sea, 
Aud  slow  through  the  rock  its  pathway  hew 
ing ! 

Far  down,  through  the  mist  of  the  falling  river, 
Which  rises  up  like  an  incense  ever, 
The  splintered  points  of  the  crags  are  seen, 
With  water  howling  and  vexed  between, 
While  the  scooping  whirl  of  the  pool  beneath 
Seems  an  open  throat,  with  its  granite  teeth  ! 

But  Mogg  Megone  never  trembled  yet 

Wherever  his  eye  or  his  foot  was  set. 

He  is  watchful :  each  form  in  the  moonlight  dim, 

Of  rock  or  of  tree,  is  seen  of  him  : 

He  listens  ;  each  sound  from  afar  is  caught, 

The  faintest  shiver  of  leaf  and  limb  : 

But  he  sees  not  the  waters,  which  foam  and  fret, 

Whose  moonlit  spray  has  his  moccasin  wet, — 

And  the  roar  of  their  rushing,  he  hears  it  not. 

The  moonlight,  through  the  open  bough 

Of  the  gnarl'd  beech,  whose  naked  root 

Coils  like  a  serpent  at  his  foot, 
Falls,  checkered,  on  the  Indian's  brow. 
His  head  is  bare,  save  only  where 
Waves  in  the  wind  one  lock  of  hair, 

Reserved  for  him,  whoe'er  he  be, 
More  mighty  than  Megone  in  strife, 

When  breast  to  breast  and  knee  to  knee, 
Above  the  fallen  warrior's  life 
Gleams,  quick  and  keen,  the  scalping-knife. 


Megone  hath  his  knife  and  hatchet  and  gun, 
And  his  gaudy  and  tasselled  blanket  on : 
His  knife  hath  a  handle  with  gold  inlaid, 
And  magic  words  on  its  polished  blade, — 
'T  was  the  gift  of  Castine  '-  to  Mogg  Megone, 
For  a  scalp  or  twain  from  the  Yengees  torn  : 
His  gun  was  the  gift  of  the  Tarrantine, 

And  Modocawando's  wives  had  strung 
The  brass  and  the  beads,  which  tinkle  and  shine 
On  the  polished  breach,  and  broad  bright  line 

Of  beaded  wampum  around  it  hung. 

What  seeks  Megone  ?    His  foes  are  near, — 
Grey  Jocelyn's 3  eye  is  never  sleeping, 

And  the  garrison  lights  are  burning  clear, 
Where  Phillips' 4  men  their  watch  are  keeping. 


Let  him  hie  him  away  through  the  dank  river  fog, 
Never  rustling  the  boughs  nor  displacing  the 

rocks, 
For  the  eyes  and  the  ears  which  are  watching  for 

Mogg 
Are  keener  than  those  of  the  wolf  or  the  fox. 

He  starts, — there  's  a  rustle  among  the  leaves : 

Another, — the  click  of  his  gun  is  heard  ! 
j  A  footstep, — is  it  the  step  of  Cleaves, 

With  Indian  blood  on  his  English  sword  ? 
Steals  Harmon  5  down  from  the  sands  of  York, 
With  hand  of  iron  and  foot  of  cork  ? 
Has  Scamman,  versed  in  Indian  wile, 
For  vengeance  left  his  vine-hung  isle  ?  6 
Hark  !  at  that  whistle,  soft  and  low, 

How  lights  the  eye  of  Mogg  Megone ! 
A  smile  gleams  o'er  his  dusky  brow, — 

"  Boon  welcome,  Johnny  Bonython  !  " 

Out  steps,  with  cautious  foot  and  slow, 
And  quick,  keen  glances  to  and  fro, 

The  hunted  outlaw,  Bonython  !  7 
A  low,  lean,  swarthy  man  is  he, 
j  With  blanket-garb  and  buskined  knee, 

And  naught  of  English  fashion  on  ; 
For  he  hates  the  race  from  whence  he  sprung, 
And  he  couches  his  words  in  the  Indian  tongue. 

"  Hush, — let  the  Sachem's  voice  be  weak  ; 

The  water-rat  shall  hear  him  speak, — 

The  owl  shall  whoop  in  the  white  man's  ear, 

That  Mogg  Megone,  with  his  scalps,  is  here  !  " 

He  pauses, — dark,  over  cheek  and  brow, 

A  flush,  as  of  shame,  is  stealing  now : 

"  Sachem  !  "  he  says,  "  let  me  have  the  land, 

Which  stretches  away  upon  either  hand, 

As  far  about  as  my  feet  can  stray 

In  the  half  of  a  gentle  summer's  day, 

From  the  leaping  brook  8  to  the  Saco  river, — 
And  the  fair-haired  girl,  thou  hast  sought  of  me, 
Shall  sit  in  the  Sachem's  wigwam,  and  be 

The  wife  of  Mogg  Megone  forever. " 

There 's  a  sudden  light  in  the  Indian's  glance, 
A  moment's  trace  of  powerful  feeling, 

Of  love  or  triumph,  or  both  perchance, 
Over  his  proud,  calm  features  stealing. 

"  The  words  of  my  father  are  very  good ; 

He  shall  have  the  land,  and  water,  and  wood  ; 

And  he  who  harms  the  Sagamore  John, 

Shall  feel  the  knife  of  Mogg  Megone  ; 

But  the  fawn  of  the  Yengees  shall  sleep  on  my 
breast, 

And  the  bird  of  the  clearing  shall  sing  in  my 
nest." 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


u  But,  father  !  " — and  the  Indian's  hand 

Falls  gently  on  the  white  man's  arm, 
And  witn  a  smile  as  shrewdly  bland 

As  the  deep  voice  is  slow  and  calm, — 
11  Where  is  my  father's  singing-bird, — 

The  sunny  eye,  and  sunset  hair  ? 
I  know  I  have  my  father's  word, 

And  that  hip  word  istlgpod  and  fair  ; 

But  will /n,y  lather  toll  me  vvher^> 
Megone  snail  go  and 'look  for  hir  bride? — 
For  he  sees  her  not  by  her  father's  side." 

TMda^k,  sflem,eye  of  Bov.ython.    , 
jFlaslies*  over  the. features,  of  .Mogg. Megone, 
*In  one  of  those  glances  which  search  within  ; 

But  the  stolid  calm  of  the  Indian  alone 

Remains  where  the  trace  of  emotion  has  been. 

u  Does  the  Sachem  doubt  ?    Let  him  go  with  me, 

And  the  eyes  of  the  Sachem  his  bride  shall  see." 

Cautious  and  slow,  with  pauses  oft, 
And  watchful  eyes  and  whispers  soft, 
The  twain  are  stealing  through  the  wood, 
Leaving  the  downward-rushing  flood, 
Whose  deep  and  solemn  roar  behind 
Grows  fainter  on  the  evening  wind. 

Hark  ! — is  that  the  angry  howl 

Of  the  wolf,  the  hills  among  ?— 
Or  the  hooting  of  the  owl, 

On  his  leafy  cradle  swung  ? — 
Quickly  glancing,  to  and  fro, 
Listening  to  each  sound  they  go 
Round  the  columns  of  the  pine, 

Indistinct,  in  shadow,  seeming 
Like  some  old  and  pillared  shrine ; 
With  the  soft  and  white  moonshine, 
Round  the  foliage-tracery  shed 
Of  each  column's  branching  head, 

For  its  lamps  of  worship  gleaming ! 
And  the  sounds  awakened  there, 

In  the  pine-leaves  fine  and  small, 
.  Soft  and  sweetly  musical, 
By  the  fingers  of  the  air, 
For  the  anthem's  dying  fall 
Lingering  round  some  temple's  wall ! 
Niche  and  cornice  round  and  round 
Wailing  like  the  ghost  of  sound ! 
Is  not  Nature's  worship  thus, 

Ceaseless  ever,  going  on  ? 
Hath  it  not  a  voice  for  us 

In  the  thunder,  or  the  tone 
Of  the  leaf -harp  faint  and  small,    - 

Speaking  to  the  unsealed  ear 

Words  of  blended  love  and  fear, 
Of  the  mighty  Soul  of  all  ? 

Naught  had  the  twain  of  thoughts  like  these 
As  they  wound  along  through  the  crowded  trees, 
Where  never  had  rung  the  axeman's  stroke 
On  the  gnarled  trunk  of  the  rough-barked  oak  ; — 
Climbing  the  dead  tree's  mossy  log, 

Breaking  the  mesh  of  the  bramble  fine, 

Turning  aside  the  wild  grapevine, 
And  lightly  crossing  the  quaking  bog 
Whose  surface  shakes  at  the  leap  of  the  frog, 
And  out  of  whose  pools  the  ghostly  fog 

Creeps  into  the  chill  moonshine  ! 
Yet,  even  that  Indian's  ear  had  heard 
The  preaching  of  the  Holy  Word  : 
Sanchekantacket's  isle  of  sand 
Was  once  his  father's  hunting  land, 
Where  zealous  Hiacoomes  tf  stood, — 
The  wild  apostle  of  the  wood, 
Shook  from  his  soul  the  fear  of  harm, 
And  trampled  on  the  Powwaw's  charm  ; 
Until  the  wizard's  curses  hung 
Suspended  on  his  palsying  tongue, 
And  the  fierce  warrior,  grim  and  tall, 
Trembled  before  the  forest  Paul ! 


A  cottage  hidden  in  the  wood, — 

Red  through  its  seams  a  light  is  glowing, 
On  rock  and  bough  and  tree-trunk  rude, 

A  narrow  lustre  throwing. 
"  Who 's  there  ?  "  a  clear,  firm  voice  demands  ; 

"Hold,  Ruth, — 't  is  I,  the  Sagamore  !  " 
Quick,  at  the  summons,  hasty  hands 

Unclose  the  bolted  door  ; 
And  on  the  outlaw's  daughter  shine 
The  flashes  of  the  kindled  pine. 

Tall  and  erect  the  maiden  stands, 

Like  some  young  priestess  of  the  wood, 

The  freeborn  child  of  Solitude, 

And  bearing  still  the  wild  and  rude, 
Yet  noble  trace  of  Nature's  hands. 
Her  dark  brown  cheek  has  caught  its  stain 
More  from  the  sunshine  than  the  rain  ; 
Yet,  where  her  long  fair  hair  is  parting, 
A  pure  white  brow  into  light  is  starting  ; 
And,  where  the  folds  of  her  blanket  sever, 
Are  a  neck  and  bosom  as  white  as  ever 
The  foam-wreaths  rise  on  the  leaping  river. 
But  in  the  convulsive  quiver  and  grip 
Of  the  muscles  around  her  bloodless  lip, 

There  is  something  painful  and  sad  to  see ; 
And  her  eye  has  a  glance  more  sternly  wild 
Than  even  that  of  a  forest  child 

In  its  fearless  and  untamed  freedom  should  be. 
Yet,  seldom  in  hall  or  court  are  seen 
So  queenly  a  form  and  so  noble  a  mien, 

As    freely  and    smiling    she    welcomes    them 

there, — 
Her  outlawed  sire  and  Mogg  Megone  : 

"Pray,  father,  how  does  thy  hunting  fare? 

And,  Sachem,  say, — dees  Scaminan  wear, 
In  spite  of  thy  promise,  a  scalp  of  his  own  V  " 
Hurried  and  light  is  the  maiden's  tone  ; 

But  a  fearful  meaning  lurks  within 
Her  glance,  as  it  questions  the  eye  of  Megone, — 

An  awful  meaning  of  guilt  and  sin ! — 
The  Indian  hath  opened  his  blanket,  and  there 
Hangs  a  human  scalp  by  its  long  damp  hair  ! 
W'ith  hand  upraised,  with  quick-drawn  breath, 
She  meets  that  ghastly  sign  of  death. 
In  one  long,  glassy,  spectral  stare 
The  enlarging  eye  is  fastened  there, 
As  if  that  mesh  of  pale  brown  hair 

Had  power  to  change  at  sight  alone, 
Even  as  the  fearful  locks  which  wound 
Medusa's  fatal  forehead  round, 

The  gazer  into  stone. 
With  such  a  look  Herodias  read 
The  features  of  the  bleeding  head, 
So  looked  the  mad  Moor  on  his  dead, 
Or  the  young  Cenci  as  she  stood, 
O'er-dabbled  with  a  father's  blood  ! 

Look  ! — feeling  melts  that  frozen  glance, 
It  moves  that  marble  countenance, 
As  if  at  once  within  her  strove 
Pity  with  shame,  and  hate  with  love. 
The  Past  recalls  its  joy  and  pain, 
Old  memories  rise  before  her  brain, — 
The  lips  which  love's  embraces  met, 
The  hand  her  tears  of  parting  wet, 
The  voice  whose  pleading  tones  beguiled 
The  pleased  ear  of  the  forest-child, — 
And  tears  she  may  no 'more  repress 
Reveal  her  lingering  tenderness. 

O,  woman  wronged  can  cherish  hate 

More  deep  and  dark  than  manhood  may ; 
But  when  the  mockery  of  Fate 

Hath  left  Revenge  its  chosen  way, 
And  the  fell  curse,  which  years  have  nursed, 
Full  on  the  spoiler's  head  hath  burst, — 
When  all  her  wrong,  and  shame,  and  pain, 
Burns  fiercely  on  his  heart  and  brain, — 
Still  lingers  something  of  the  spell 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


1  The  Indian  hath  opened  his  blanket." 


Which  bound  her  to  the  traitor's  bosom, — 
Still,  midst  the  vengeful  fires  of  hell, 
Some  flowers  of  old  affection  blossom. 

John  Bonython's  eyebrows  together  are  drawn 
With  a  fierce  expression  of  wrath  and  scorn, — 
He  hoarsely  whispers,  "  Ruth,  beware  ! 

Is  this  the  time  to  be  playing  the  fool, — 
Crying  over  a  paltry  lock  of  hair, 

Like  a  love-sick  girl  at  school  V — 
Curse  on  it ! — an  Indian  can  see  and  hear  : 
Away, — and  prepare  our  evening  cheer !  " 

How  keenly  the  Indian  is  watching  now 
Her  tearful  eye  and  her  varying  brow, — 

With  a  serpent  eye,  which  kindles  and  burns, 

Like  a  fiery  star  in  the  upper  air  : 
On  sire  and  daughter  his  fierce  glance  turns  : — 

' l  Has  my  old  white  father  a  scalp  to  spare  ? 

For  his  young  one  loves  the  pale  brown  hair 
Of  the  scalp  of  an  English  dog  far  more 
Than  Mogg  Megone,  or  his  wigwam  floor  ; 

Go, — Mogg  is  wise  :  he  will  keep  his  land, — 

And  Sagamore  John,  when  he   feels  with   his 

hand, 
Shall  miss  his  scalp  where  it  grew  before." 

The  moment's  gust  of  grief  is  gone,  — 

The  lip  is  clenched, — the  tears  are  still, — 

God  pity  thee,  Ruth  Bonython  ! 
With  what  a  strength  of  will 

Are  nature's  feelings  in  thy  breast, 

As  with  an  iron  hand,  repressed  ! 

And  how,  upon  that  nameless  woe, 

Quick  as  the  pulse  can  come  and  go, 

While  shakes  the  unsteadfast  knee,  and  yet 

The  bosom  heaves, — the  eye  is  wet, — 

Has  thy  dark  spirit  power  to  stay 

The  heart's  wild  current  on  its  way  ?   . 
And  whence  that  baleful  strength  of  guile, 


Which  over  that  still  working  brow 
And  tearful  eye  and  cheek  can  throw 

The  mockery  of  a  smile  ? 
Warned  by  her  father's  blackening  frown, 
With  one  strong  effort  crushing  down 
Grief,  hate,  remorse,  she  meets  again 
The  savage  murderer's  sullen  gaze, 
And  scarcely  look  or  tone  betrays 
How  the  heart  strives  beneath  its  chain. 

"  Is  the  Sachem  angry, — angry  with  Ruth, 
Because  she  cries  with  an  ache  in  her  tooth,10 
Which  would  make  a  Sagamore  jump  and  cry, 
And  look  about  with  a  woman's  eye  ? 
No, — Ruth  will  sit  in  the  Sachem's  door 
And  braid  the  mats  for  his  wigwam  floor, 
And  broil  his  fish  and  tender  fawn, 
And  weave  his  wampum,  and  grind  his  corn, — 
For  she  loves  the  brave  and  the  wise,  and  none 
Are  braver  and  wiser  than  Mogg  Megone  ! " 

The  Indian's  brow  is  clear  once  more  : 

With  grave,  calm  face,  and  half -shut  eye, 
He  sits  upon  the  wigwam  floor, 

And  watches  Ruth  go  by, 
Intent  upon  her  household  care ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  while, 
Or  on  the  maiden,  or  her  fare, 
Which  smokes  in  grateful  promise  there, 

Bestows  his  quiet  smile. 

Ah,  Mogg  Megone  ! — what  dreams  are  thine, 
But  those  which  love's  own  fancies  dress, — 
The  sum  of  Indian  happiness  ! — 
A  wigwam,  where  the  warm  sunshine 
Looks  in  among  the  groves  of  pine, — 
A  stream,  where,  round  thy  light  canoe, 
The  trout  and  salmon  dart  in  view, 
And  the  fair  girl,  before  thee  now, 
Spreading  thy  mat  with  hand  of  snow, 


14 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Or  plying,  in  the  dews  of  morn, 
Her  hoe  amidst  thy  patch  of  corn, 
Or  offering  up,  at  eve,  to  thee, 
Thy  birchen  dish  of  hominy  ! 

From  the  rude  board  of  Bonython, 

Venison  and  succotash  have  gone, — 

For  long  these  dwellers  of  the  wood 

Have  felt  the  knawing  want  of  food. 

But  untasted  of  Ruth  is  the  frugal  cheer, — 

With  head  averted,  yet  ready  ear, 

She  stands  by  the  side  of  her  austere  sire, 

Feeding,  at  times,  the  unequal  fire 

With  the  yellow  knots  of  the  pitch-pine  tree, 

Whose  flaring  light,  as  they  kindle,  falls 

On  the  cottage-roof,  and  its  black  log  walls, 

And  over  its  inmates  three. 

From  Sagamore  Bonython's  hunting  flask 

The  fire-water  burns  at  the  lip  of  Megone  : 
1 1  Will  the  Sachem  hear  what  his  father  shall  ask  ? 

Will  he  make  his  mark,  that  it  may  be  known, 
On  the  speaking-leaf,  that  he  gives  the  land, 
From  the  Sachem's  own,  to  his  father's  hand  ?  " 
The  fire-water  shines  in  the  Indian's  eyes, 

As  he  rises,  the  white  man's  bidding  to  do  :    * 
"  Wuttamuttata — weekan  !u  Mogg  is  wise, — 

For  the  water  he  drinks  is  strong  and  new, — 
Mogg's  heart  is  great ! — will  he  shut  his  hand, 
When  his  father  asks  for  a  little  land  ?  " — 
With  unsteady  fingers,  the  Indian  has  drawn 

On  the  parchment  the  shape  of  a  hunter's  bow, 
"  Boon  water, — boon  water, — Sagamore  John  ! 

Wuttamuttata — weekan  !  our  hearts  will  grow !" 
He  drinks  yet  deeper, — he  mutters  low, — 
He  reels  on  his  bear-skin  to  and  fro, — 
His  head  falls  down  on  his  naked  breast, — 
He  struggles,  and  sinks  to  a  drunken  rest. 

"  Humph — drunk  as  a  beast !  " — and  Bonython's 
brow 

Is  darker  than  ever  with  evil  thought — 
u  The  fool  has  signed  his  warrant ;  but  how 

And  when  shall  the  deed  be  wrought  ? 
Spsak,  Ruth  !  why,  what  the  devil  is  there, 
To  fix  thy  gaze  in  that  empty  air  ? — 
Speak,  Ruth  !  by  my  soul,  if  I  thought  that  tear, 
Which  shames  thyself  and  our  purpose  here, 
Were  shed  for  that  cursed  and  pale-faced  dog, 
Whose  green  scalp  hangs  from  the  belt  of  Mogg, 

And  whose  beastly  soul  is  in  Satan's  keeping, — 
Tnis — this  !  " — he  dashes  his  hand  upon 
The  rattling  stock  of  his  loaded  gun, — 

"  Should  send  thee  with  him  to  do  thy  weeping !" 

"Father !  "—the  eye  of  Bonython 
Sinks  at  that  low,  sepulchral  tone, 
Hollow  and  deep,  as  it  were  spoken 

By  the  unmoving  tongue  of  death, — 
Or  from  some  statue's  lips  had  broken, — 

A  sound  without  a  breath  ! 
"  Father !—  my  life  I  value  less 
Than  yonder  fool  his  gaudy  dress  ; 
And  how  it  ends  it  matters  not, 
By  heart-break  or  by  rifle-shot ; 
But  spare  awhile  the  scoff  and  threat, — 
Our  business  is  not  finished  yet." 

"  True,  true,  my  girl, — I  only  meant 

To  draw  up  again  the  bow  unbent. 

Harm  thee,  my  Ruth  !  I  only  sought 

To  frighten  off  thy  gloomy  thought ; 

Come,  —let 's  be  friends  !  "    He  seeks  to  clasp 

His  daughter's  cold,  damp  hand  in  his. 

Ruth  startles  from  her  father's  grasp, 

As  if  each  nerve  and  muscle  felt, 

Instinctively,  the  touch  of  guilt, 

Through  all  their  subtle  sympathies. 


He  points  her  to  the  sleeping  Mogg : 
"What  shall  be  done  with  yonder  dog  ? 
Scamman  is  dead,  and  revenge  is  thine, — 
The  deed  is  signed  and  the  land  is  mine  ; 

And  this  drunken  fool  is  of  use  no  more, 
Save  as  thy  hopeful  bridegroom,  and  sooth, 
'T  were  Christian  mercy  to  finish  him,  Ruth, 

Now,  while  he  lies  like  a  beast  on  our  floor, — 
If  not  for  thine,  at  least  for  his  sake, 
Rather  than  let  the  poor  dog  awake 

To  drain  my  flask,  and  claim  as  his  bride 

Such  a  forest  devil  to  run  by  his  side, — 
Such  a  Wetuomanit12  as  thou  wouldst  make  !  " 

He  laughs  at  his  jest.     Hush — what  is  there  ? — 
The  sleeping  Indian  is  striving  to  rise, 
With  his  knife  in  his  hand,  and  glaring  eyes  ! 
"  Wagh  ! — Mogg  will  have  the  pale-face's  hair, 

For  his  knife  is  sharp,  and  his  fingers  can  help 
The  hair  to  pull  and  the  skin  to  peel,  — 
Let  him  cry  like  a  woman  and  twist  like  an  eel, 
The    great    Captain   Scamman  must  lose  his 

scalp ! 

And  Ruth,  when  she  sees  it,  shall  dance  with 
i  Mogg." 

His  eyes  are  fixed, — but  his  lips  draw  in, — 
With  a  low,  hoarse  chuckle,  and  fiendish  grin, — 
And  he  sinks  again,  like  a  senseless  log. 

Ruth  does  not  speak, — she  does  not  stir ; 
But  she  gazes  down  on  the  murderer, 
Whose  broken  and  dreamful  slumbers  tell 
Too  much  for  her  ear  of  that  deed  of  hell. 
!  She  sees  the  knife,  with  its  slaughter  red, 
j  And  the  dark  fingers  clenching  the  bearskin  bed  ! 
I  What  thoughts  of  horror  and  madness  whirl 
Through  the  burning  brain  of  that  fallen  girl  ! 

John  Bonython  lifts  his  gun  to  his  eye, 

Its  muzzle  is  close  to  the  Indian's  ear, — 
But  he  drops  it  again.     "•  Some  one  may  be  nigh, 
And  I  would  not,  that  even  the  wolves  should 

hear." 

He  draws  his  knife  from  its  deer-skin  belt, — 
Its  edge  with  his  fingers  is  slowly  felt ; — 
Kneeling  down  on  one  knee,  by  the  Indian's  side, 
From  his  throat  he  opens  the  blanket  wide  ; 
And  twice  or  thrice  he  feebly  essays 
A  trembling  hand  with  the  knife  to  raise. 

u  I  cannot," — he  mutters, — "  did  he  not  save 
My  life  from  a  cold  and  wintry  grave, 
When  the  storm  came  down  from  Agioochook, 
And  the  north-wind  howled,  and  the  tree-tops 

shook, — 

And  I  strove,  in  the  drifts  of  the  rushing  snow, 
Till  my  knees  grew  weak  and  I  could  not  go, 
And  I  felt  the  cold  to  my  vitals  creep, 
And  my  heart's  blood  stiffen,  and  pulses  sleep  ! 
I  cannot  strike  him — Ruth  Bonython  ! 
In  the  Devil's    name,    tell    me — what's    to    be 

done?" 

O,  when  the  soul,  once  pure  and  high, 
Is  stricken  down  from  Virtue's  sky, 
As,  with  the  downcast  star  of  morn, 
Some  gems  of  light  are  with  it  drawn,— 
And,  through  its  night  of  darkness,  play 
Some  tokens  of  its  primal  day, — 
Some  lofty  feelings  linger  still, — 

The  strength  to  dare,  the  nerve  to  meet 

Whatever  threatens  with  defeat 
Its  all -indomitable  will ! — 
But  lacks  the  mean  of  mind  and  heart, 

Though  eager  for  the  gains  of  crime, 

Oft,  at  his  chosen  place  and  time, 
The  strength  to  bear  his  evil  part ; 
And,  shielded  by  his  very  vice, 
Escapes  from  Crime  by  Cowardice. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


15 


Ruth  starts  erect, — with  bloodshot  eye, 
And  lips  drawn  tight  across  her  teeth, 
Showing  their  locked  embrace  beneath, 
In  the  red  firelight :— "  Mogg  must  die  ! 
Give  me  the  knife  !  "—The  outlaw  turns, 
Shuddering  in  heart  and  limb,  away, — 
But,  fitfully  there,  the  hearth-fire  burns, 

And  he  sees  on  the  wall  strange  shadows  play. 
A  lifted  arm,  a  tremulous  blade, 
Are  dimly  pictured  in  light  and  shade, 
Plunging  down  in  the  darkness.     Hark,  that 

cry 

Again — and  again — he  sees  it  fall, — 
That  shadowy  arm  down  the  lighted  wall ! 

He  hears  quick  footsteps — a  shape  flits  by — 
The  door  on  its  rusted  hinges  creaks  : — 
"Ruth — daughter  Ruth  !  "  the  outlaw  shrieks. 
But  no  sound  comes  back, — he  is  standing  alone 
By  the  mangled  corsa  of  Mogg  Megone  ! 


PART  H. 

'T  IS  morning  over  Norridgewock, — 
On  tree  and  wigwam,  wave  and  rock. 
Bathed  in  the  autumnal  sunshine,  stirred 
At  intervals  by  breeze  and  bird, 
And  wearing  all  the  hues  which  glow 
In  heaven's  own  pure  and  perfect  bow, 

That  glorious  picture  of  the  air, 
Which  summer's  light-robed  angel  forms 
On  the  dark  ground  of  fading  storms, 

With  pencil  dipped  in  sunbeams  there, — 
And,  stretching  out,  on  either  hand, 
O'er  all  that  wide  and  unshorn  land, 

Till,  weary  of  its  gorgeousness, 
The  aching  and  the  dazzled  eye 
Rests,  gladdened,  on  the  calm  blue  sky, — 

Slumbers  the  mighty  wilderness  ! 
The  oak,  upon  the  windy  hill, 

Its  dark  green  burthen  upward  heaves — 
The  hemlock  broods  above  its  rill, 
Its  cone-like  foliage  darker  still, 

Against  the  birch's  graceful  stem, 
And  the  rough  walnut-bough  receives 
The  sun  upon  its  crowded  leaves, 

Each  colored  like  a  topaz  gem  ; 

And  the  tall  maple  wears  with  them 
The  coronal,  which  autumn  gives, 

The  brief,  bright  sign  of  ruin  near, 

The  hectic  of  a  dying  year  ! 

The  hermit  priest,  who  lingers  now 
On  the  Bald  Mountain's  shrubless  brow, 
The  gray  and  thunder-smitten  pile 
Which  marks  afar  the  Desert  Isle,13 

While  gazing  on  the  scene  below, 
May  half  forget  the  dreams  of  home, 

That  nightly  with  his  slumbers  come, — 
The  tranquil  skies  of  sunny  Prance, 
The  peasant's  harvest  song  and  dance, 
The  vines  around  the  hillsides  wreathing 
The  soft  airs  midst  their  clusters  breathing, 
The  wings  which  dipped,  the  stars  which  shone 
Within  thy  bosom,  blue  Garonne  ! 
And  round  the  Abbey's  shadowed  wall, 
At  morning  spring  and  even-fall, 

Sweet  voices  in  the  still  air  singing, — 
The  chant  of  many  a  holy  hymn, — 

The  solemn  bell  of  vespers  ringing, — 
And  hallowed  torchlight  falling  dim 

On  pictured  saint  and  seraphim  ! 
For  here  beneath  him  lies  unrolled, 
Bathed  deep  in  morning's  flood  of  gold, 
A  vision  gorgeous  as  the  dreain 
Of  the  beatified  may  seem, 

When,  as  his  Church's  legends  say, 
Borne  upward  in  ecstatic  bliss, 

The  rapt  enthusiast  soars  away 
Unto  a  brighter  world  than  this  : 


A  mortal's  glimpse  beyond  the  pale, — 
A  moment's  lifting  of  the  veil ! 

Far  eastward  o'er  the  lovely  bay, 
Penobscot's  clustered  wigwams  lay ; 
And  gently  from  that  Indian  town 
The  verdant  hillside  slopes  adown, 
To  where  the  sparkling  waters  play 

Upon  the  yellow  sands  below ; 
And  shooting  round  the  winding  shores 

Of  narrow  capes,  and  isles  which  lie 

Slumbering  to  ocean's  lullabj^, — 
With  birchen  boat  and  glancing  oars, 

The  red  men  to  their  fishing  go ; 
While  from  their  planting  ground  is  borne 
The  treasure  of  the  golden  corn, 
By  laughing  girls,  whose  dark  eyes  glow 
Wild  through  the  locks  which  o'er  them  flow. 
The  wrinkled  squaw,  whose  toil  is  done, 
Sits  on  her  bear-skin  in  the  sun, 
Watching  the  huskers,  with  a  smile 
For  each  full  ear  which  swells  the  pile ; 
And  the  old  chief,  who  nevermore 
May  bend  the  bow  or  pull  the  oar, 
Smokes  gravely  in  his  wigwam  door, 
Or  slowly  shapes,  with  axe  of  stone, 
The  arrow-head  from  flint  and  bone. 

Beneath  the  westward  turning  eye 
A  thousand  wooded  islands  lie, — 
Gems  of  the  waters  ! — with  each  hue 
Of  brightness  set  in  ocean's  blue. 
Each  bears  aloft  its  tuft  of  trees 

Touched  by  the  pencil  of  the  frost, 
And,  with  the  motion  of  each  breeze, 

A  moment  seen, — a  moment  lost, — 

Changing  and  blent,  confused  and  tossed, 

The  brighter  with  the  darker  crosse 
Their  thousand  tints  of  beauty  glow 
Down  in  the  restless  waves  below, 

And  tremble  in  the  sunny  skies, 
As  if,  from  waving  bough  to  bough, 

Flitted  the  birds  of  paradise. 
There  sleep  Placentia's  group, — and  there 
Pere  Breteaux  marks  the  hour  of  prayer  ; 
And  there,  beneath  the  sea-worn  cliff, 

On  which  the  Father's  hut  is  seen, 
The  Indian  stays  his  rocking  skiff, 

And  peers  the  hemlock-boughs  between, 
Half  trembling,  as  he  seeks  to  look 
Upon  the  Jesuit's  Cross  and  Book.14 
There,  gloomily  against  the  sky 
The  Dark  Isles  rear  their  summits  high  ; 
And  Desert  Rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 
Lifts  its  gray  turrets  in  the  air, — 
Seen  from  afar,  like  some  stronghold 
Built  by  the  ocean  kings  of  old ; 
And,  faint  as  smoke-wreath  white  and  thin, 
Swells  in  the  north  vast  Katahdin  : 
And,  wandering  from  its  marshy  feet, 
The  broad  Penobscot  comes  to  meet 

And  mingle  with  his  own  bright  bay. 
Slow  sweep  his  dark  and  gathering  floods, 
Arched  over  by  the  ancient  woods, 
Which  Time,  m  those  dim  solitudes, 

Wielding  the  dull  axe  of  Decay, 

Alone  hath  ever  shorn  away. 

Not  thus,  within  the  woods  which  hide 
The  beauty  of  thy  azure  tide, 

And  with  their  falling  timbers  block 
Thy  broken  currents,  Kennebec  ! 
Gazes  the  white  man  on  the  wreck 

Of  the  down-trodden  Norridgewock, — 
In  one  lone  village  hemmed  at  length, 
In  battle  shorn  of  half  their  strength, 
Turned,  like  the  panther  in  his  lair, 

With  his  fast-flowing  life-blood  wet, 
For  one  last  struggle  of  despair, 

Wounded  and  faint,  but  tameless  yet ! 


16 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


Unreaped,  upon  the  planting  lands, 
The  scant,  neglected  harvest  stands  : 

No  shout  is  there, — no  dance, — no  song : 
The  aspect  of  the  very  child 
Scowls  with  a  meaning  sad  and  wild 

Of  bitterness  and  wrong. 
The  almost  infant  Norridgewock 
Essays  to  lift  the  tomahawk ; 
And  plucks  his  father's  knife  away, 
To  mimic,  in  his  frightful  play, 

The  scalping  of  an  English  foe  : 
Wreathes  on  his  lip  a  horrid  smile, 
Burns,  like  a  snake's,  his  small  eye,  while 

Some  bough  or  sapling  meets  his  blow. 
The  fisher,  as  he  drops  his  line, 
Starts,  when  he  sees  the  hazels  quiver 
Along  the  margin  of  the  river, 
Looks  up  and  down  the  rippling  tide, 
And  grasps  the  firelock  at  his  side. 
For  Bomazeen15  from  Tacconock 
Has  sent  his  runners  to  Norridgewock 
With  tidings  that  Moulton  and  Harmon  of  York 

Far  up  the  river  have  come : 
They  have  left  their  boats, — they  have  entered  the 

wood, 
And  filled  the  depths  of  the  solitude 

With  the  sound  of  the  ranger's  drum. 

On  the  brow  of  a  hill,  which  slopes  to  meet 
The  flowing  river,  and  bathe  its  feet, — 
The  bare-washed  rock,  and  the  drooping  grass, 
And  the  creeping  vine,  as  the  waters  pass, — 
A  rude  and  unshapely  chapel  stands, 
Built  up  in  that  wild  by  unskilled  hands, 
Yet  the  traveller  knows  it  a  place  of  prayer, 
For  the  holy  sign  of  the  cross  is  there : 
And  should  he  chance  at  that  place  to  be, 
Of  a  Sabbath  morn,  or  some  hallowed  day, 
When  prayers  are  made  and  masses  are  said, 
Some  for  the  living  and  some  for  the  dead, 
Well  might  that  traveller  start  to  see 

The  tall  dark  forms,  that  take  their  way 
From  the  birch  canoe,  on  the  river-shore, 
And  the  forest  paths,  to  that  chapel  door ; 
And  marvel  to  mark  the  naked  knees 

And  the  dusky  foreheads  bending  there, 
While,  in  coarse  white  vesture,  over  these 

In  blessing  or  in  prayer, 
Stretching  abroad  his  thin  pale  hands, 
Like  a  shrouded  ghost,  the  Jesuit16  stands. 

Two  forms  are  now  in  that  chapel  dim, 
The  Jesuit,  silent  and  sad  and  pale, 
Anxiously  heeding  some  fearful  tale, 

Which  a  stranger  is  telling  him. 

That  stranger's  garb  is  soiled  and  torn, 

And  wet  with  dew  and  loosely  worn ; 

Her  fair  neglected  hair  falls  down 

O'er  cheeks  with  wind  and  sunshine  brown  ; 

Yet  still,  in  that  disordered  face, 

The  Jesuit's  cautious  eye  can  trace 

Those  elements  of  former  grace 

Wiiich,  half  effaced,  seem  scarcely  less, 

Even  now,  than  perfect  loveliness. 

With  drooping  head,  and  voice  so  low 
That  scarce  it  meets  the  Jesuit's  ears, — 

While  through  her  clasped  fingers  flow, 

From  the  heart's  fountain,  hot  and  slow, 
Her  penitential  tears, — 

She  tells  the  story  of  the  woe 
And  evil  of  her  years. 

u  O  father,  bear  with  me ;  my  heart 

Is  sick  and  death-like,  and  my  brain 

Seems  girdled  with  a  fiery  chain, 
Whose  scorching  links  will  never  part, 

And  never  cool  again. 
Bear  with  me  while  I  speak, — but  turn 

Away  that  gentle  eye,  the  while, — 


The  fires  of  guilt  more  fiercely  burn 

Beneath  its  holy  smile  ; 
For  half  I  fancy  I  can  see 
My  mother's  sainted  look  in  thee. 

"  My  dear  lost  mother  !  sad  and  pale 
Mournfully  sinking  day  by  day, 

And  with  a  hold  on  life  as  frail 
As  frosted  leaves,  that,  thin  and  gray, 
Hang  feebly  on  their  parent  spray, 

And  tremble  in  the  gale  ; 

Yet  watching  o'er  my  childishness 

With  patient  fondness,— not  the  less 

For  all  the  agony  which  kept 

Her  blue  eye  wakeful,  while  I  slept ; 

And  checking  every  tear  and  groan 

That  haply  might  have  waked  my  own, 

And  bearing  still,  without  offence, 

My  idle  words,  and  petulance  ; 
Reproving  with  a  tear, — and,  while 

The  tooth  of  pain  was  keenly  preying 

Upon  her  very  heart,  repaying 
My  brief  repentance  with  a  smile. 

"  O,  in  her  meek,  forgivine  eye 

There  was  a  brightness  not  of  mirth, 
A  light  whose  clear  intensity 

Was  borrowed  not  of  earth. 
Along  her  cheek  a  deepening  red 
Told  where  the  feverish  hectic  f ?d  ; 

And  yet,  each  fatal  token  gave 
To  the  mild  beauty  of  her  face 
A  newer  and  a  dearer  grace, 

Unwarning  of  the  grave. 
'T  was  like  the  hue  which  Autumn  gives 
To  yonder  changed  and  dying  leaves, 

Breathed  over  by  her  frosty  breath  ; 
Scarce  can  the  gazer  feel  that  this 
Is  but  the  spoiler's  treacherous  kiss, 

The  mocking-smile  of  Death  ! 

"  Sweet  were  the  tales  she  used  to  tell 

When  summer's  eve  was  dear  to  us, 
And,  fading  from  the  darkening  dell, 
The  glory  of  the  sunset  fell 

On  wooded  Agamenticus, — 
When,  sitting  by  our  cottage  wall, 
The  murmur  of  the  Saco's  fall, 

And  the  south-wind's  expiring  sighs, 
Came,  softly  blending,  on  my  ear, 
With  the  low  tones  I  loved  to  hear  : 

Tales  of  the  pure, — the  good, — the  wise,- 
The  holy  men  and  maids  of  old, 
In  the  all-sacred  pages  told  ; — 
Of  Rachel,  stooped  at  Haran's  fountains, 

Amid  her  father's  thirsty  flock, 
Beautiful  to  her  kinsman  seeming 
As  the  bright  angels  of  his  dreaming, 

On  Padan-aran's  holy  rock  ; 
Of  gentle  Ruth, — and  her  who  kept 

Her  awful  vigil  on  the  mountains, 
By  Israel's  virgin  daughters  wept ; 
Of  Miriam,  with  her  maidens,  singing 

The  song  for  grateful  Israel  meet, 
While  every  crimson  wave  was  bringing 

The  spoils  of  Egypt  at  her  feet ; 
Of  her, — Samaria's  humble  daughter, 

Who  paused  to  hear,  beside  her  well, 

Lessons  of  love  and  truth,  which  fell 
Softly  as  Shiloh's  flowing  water  ; 

And  saw,  beneath  his  pilgrim  guise, 
The  Promised  One,  so  long  foretold 
By  holy  seer  and  bard  of  old, 

Revealed  before  her  wondering  eyes  ! 

"  Slowly  she  faded.  Day  by  day 
Her  step  grew  weaker  in  our  hall, 
And  fainter,  at  each  even-fall, 

Her  sad  voice  died  away. 
Yet  on  her  thin,  pale  lip,  the  while, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


17 


Sat  Resignation's  holy  smile  : 
And  even  my  father  checked  his  tread^ 
And  hushed  his  voice,  beside  her  bed  : 
Beneath  the  calm  and  sad  rebuke 
Of  her  meek  eye's  imploring  look, 
The  scowl  of  hate  his  brow  forsook, 

And  in  his  stern  and  gloomy  eye, 
At  times,  a  few  unwonted  tears 
Wet  the  dark  lashes,  which  for  years 

Hatred  and  pride  had  kept  so  dry. 

"  Calm  as  a  child  to  slumber  soothed, 
As  if  an  angers  hand  had  smoothed 

The  still,  white  features  into  rest, 
Silent  and  cold,  without  a  breath 

To  stir  the  drapery  on  her  breast, 
Pain,  with  its  keen  and  poisoned  fang, 
The  horror  of  the  mortal  pang, 
The  suffering  look  her  brow  had  worn, 
The  fear,  the  strife,  the  anguish  gone, — 

She  slept  at  last  in  death  ! 

"  O,  tell  me,  father,  can  the  dead 
Walk  on  earth,  and  look  on  us, 

And  lay  upon  the  living's  head 
Their  blessing  or  their  curse  ? 

For,  O,  last  night  she  stood  by  me, 

As  I  lay  beneath  the  woodland  tree  ! " 

The  Jesuit  crosses  himself  in  awe, — 
"  Jesu !  what  was  it  my  daughter  saw  ?  " 

"  She  came  to  me  last  night. 

The  dried  leaves  did  not  feel  her  tread ; 
She  stood  by  me  in  the  wan  moonlight, 

In  the  white  robes  of  the  dead  ! 
Pale,  and  very  mournfully 
She  bent  her  light  form  over  me. 
I  heard  no  sound,  I  felt  no  breath 
Breathe  o'er  me  from  that  face  of  death  : 
Its  blue  eyes  rested  on  my  own, 
Rayless  and  cold  as  eyes  of  stone  ; 
Yet,  in  their  fixed,  unchanging  gaze, 
Something,  which  spoke  of  early  days, — 
A  sadness  in  their  quiet  glare, 
As  if  love's  smile  were  frozen  there, — 
Came  o'er  me  with  an  icv  thrill ; 
O  God  !  I  feel  its  presence  still !  " 

The  Jesuit  makes,  the  holy  sign,  — 

"  How  passed  the  vision,  daughter  mine  ?  " 

u  All  dimly  in  the  wan  moonshine, 

As  a  wreath  of  mist  will  twist  and  twine, 

And  scatter,  and  melt  into  the  light, — 

So  scattering, — melting  on  my  sight, 

The  pale,  cold  vision  passed  ; 
But  those  sad  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine 

Mournfully  to  the  last." 

"  God  help  thee,  daughter,  tell  me  why 
That  spirit  passed  before  thine  eye  ! " 

"  Father,  I  know  not,  save  it  be 
That  deeds  of  mine  have  summoned  her 
From  the  unbreathing  sepulchre, 
To  leave  her  last  rebuke  with  me. 
Ah,  woe  for  me  !  my  mother  died 
Just  at  the  moment  when  I  stood 
Close  on  the  verge  of  womanhood, 
A  child  in  everything  beside  ; 
And  when  my  wild  heart  needed  most 
Her  gentle  counsels,  they  were  lost. 

"  My  father  lived  a  stormy  life, 
Of  frequent  change  and  daily  strife  ; 
And — God  forgive  him  ! — left  his  child 
To  feel,  like  him,  a  freedom  wild  ; 
To  love  the  red  man's  dwelling-place, 
The  birch  boat  on  his  shaded  floods, 
The  wild  excitement  of  the  chase 


Sweeping  the  ancient  woods, 
The  camp-fire,  blazing  on  the  shore 

Of  the  still  lakes,  the  clear  stream  where 

The  idle  fisher  sets  his  wear, 
Or  angles  in  the  shade,  far  more 

Than  that  restraining  awe  I  felt 
Beneath  my  gentle  mother's  care, 

When  nightly  at  her  knee  I  knelt, 
With  childhood's  simple  prayer. 

"  There  came  a  change.     The  wild,  glad  mood 

Of  unchecked  freedom  passed. 
Amid  the  ancient  solitude 
Of  unshorn  grass  and  waving  wood, 

And  waters  glancing  bright  and  fast, 
A  softened  voice  was  in  my  ear, 

Sweet  as  those  lulling  sounds  and  fine 
The  hunter  lifts  his  head  to  hear, 
Now  far  and  faint,  now  full  and  near — 

The  murmur  of  the  wind-swept  pine. 
A  manly  form  was  ever  nigh, 
A  bold,  free  hunter,  with  an  eye 

Whose  dark,  keen  glance  had  power  to  wake, 
Both  fear  and  love, — to  awe  and  charm  ; 

'T  was  as  the  wizard  rattlesnake, 
Whose  evil  glances  lure  to  harm — 
Whose  cold  and  small  and  glittering  eye, 
And  brilliant  coil,  and  changing  dye, 
Draw,  step  by  step,  the  gazer  near, 
With  drooping  wing  and  cry  of  lear, 
Yet  powerless  all  to  turn  away, 
A  conscious,  but  a  willing  prey  ! 

uFear,  doubt,  thought,  life  itself,  ere  long 
Merged  in  one  feeling  deep  and  strong. 
Faded  the  world  which  I  had  known, 

A  poor  vain  shadow,  cold  and  waste  ; 
In  the  warm  pleasant  bliss  alone 

Seemed  I  of  actual  life  to  taste. 
Fond  longings  dimly  understood, 
The  glow  of  passion's  quickening  blood, 
And  cherished  fantasies  which  press 
The  young  lip  with  a  dream's  caress, — 
The  heart's  forecast  and  prophecy 
Took  form  and  life  before  my  eye, 
Seen  in  the  glance  which  met  my  own, 
Heard  in  the  soft  and  pleading  tone, 
Felt  in  the  arms  around  me  cast, 
And  warm  heart-pulses  beating  fast. 
Ah !  scarcely  yet  to  God  above 
With  deeper  trust,  with  stronger  love, 
Has  prayerful  saint  his  meek  heart  lent, 
Or  cloistered  nun  at  twilight  beat, 
Than  I,  before  a  human  shrine, 
As  mortal  and  as  frail  as  mine, 
With  heart,  and  soul,  and  mind,  and  form, 
Knelt  madly  to  a  fellow-worm. 

"  Full  soon,  upon  that  dream  of  sin, 
An  awful  light  came  bursting  in. 
The  shrine  was  cold  at  which  I  knelt, 

The  idol  of  that  shrine  was  gone  ; 
A  humbled  thing  of  shame  and  guilt, 

Outcast,  and  spurned  and  lone, 
Wrapt  in  the  shadows  of  my  crime, 

With  withering  heart  and  burning  brain, 

And  tears  that  fell  like  fiery  rain, 
I  passed  a  fearful  time. 

There  came  a  voice — it  checked  the  tear- 
In  heart  and  soul  it  wrought  a  change ; — 

My  father's  voice  was  in  my  ear  ; 
It  whispered  of  revenge  ! 

A  new  and  fiercer  feeling  swept 
All  lingering  tenderness  away  ; 

And  tiger  passions,  which  had  slept 
In  childhood's  better  day. 

Unknown,  unfelt,  arose  at  length 

In  all  their  own  demoniac  strength. 


18 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


"  A  youthful  warrior  of  the  wild, 
By  words  deceived,  by  smiles  beguiled, 
Of  crime  the  cheated  instrument, 
Upon  our  fatal  errands  went. 

Through  camp  and  town  and  wilderness 
He  tracked  his  victim  ;  and,  at  last, 
Just  when  the  tide  of  hate  had  passed, 
And  milder  thoughts  came  warm  and  fast, 
Exhulting,  at  my  feet  he  cast 

The  bloody  token  of  success. 

"  O  God  !  with  what  an  awful  power 

I  saw  the  buried  past  uprise, 
And  gather,  in  a  single  hour, 

Its  ghost-like  memories ! 
And  then  I  felt— alas  !  too  late- 
Then  underneath  the  mask  of  hate, 
That  shame  and  guilt  and  wrong  had  thrown 
O'er  feelings  which  they  might  not  own, 

The  heart's  wild  love  had  known  no  change  ; 
And  still  that  deep  and  hidden  love, 
With  its  first  fondness,  wept  above 

The  victim  of  its  own  revenge ! 
There  lay  the  fearful  scalp,  and  there 
The  blood  was  on  its  pale  brown  hair  ! 
I  thought  not  of  the  victim's  scorn, 

I  thought  not  of  his  baleful  guile, 
My  deadly  wrong,  my  outcast  name, 
The  characters  of  sin  and  shame 
On  heart  and  forehead  drawn  ; 

I  only  saw  that  victim's  smile, — 
The  still,  green  places  where  we  met, — 
The  moonlit  branches,  dewy  wet ; 
I  only  felt,  I  only  heard 
The  greeting  and  the  parting  word, — 
The  smile, — the  embrace, — the  tone,  which  made 
An  Eden  of  the  forest  shade. 

u  And  oh,  with  what  a  loathing  eye, 

With  what  a  deadly  hate  and  deep, 
I  saw  that  Indian  murderer  lie 

Before  me,  in  his  drunken  sleep  ! 
What  though  for  me  the  deed  was  done, 
And  words  of  mine  had  sped  him  on  ! 
Yet  when  he  murmured,  as  he  slept, 

The  horrors  of  that  deed  of  blood, 
The  tide  of  utter  madness  swept 

O'er  brain  and  bosom,  like  a  flood. 
And,  father,  with  this  hand  of  mine — " 

kt  Ha  !  what  didst  thou  ?  "  the  Jesuit  cries, 
Shuddering,  as  smitten  with  sudden  pain, 

And  shading,  with  one  thin  hand,  his  eyes, 
With  the  other  he  makes  the  holy  sign. 
*k — I  smote  him  as  I  would  a  worm  ;- — 
With  heart  as  steeled,  with  nerves  as  firm : 

He  never  woke  again  !  " 

"  Woman  of  sin  and  blood  and  shame, 
Speak, — I  would  know  that  victim's  name." 

"Father,"  she  gasped,  "a  chieftain,  known 
As  Saco's  Sachem, — MOGG  MEGONE  !  " 

Pale  priest !     What  proud  and  lofty  dreams, 
What  keen  desires,  what  cherished  schemes, 
What  hopes,  that  time  may  not  recall, 
Are  darkened  by  that  chieftain's  fall ! 
Was  he  not  pledged,  by  cross  and  vow, 

To  lift  the  hatchet  of  his  sire, 
And,  round  his  own,  the  Church's  foe, 

To  light  the  avenging  fire  ? 
Who  now  the  Tarrantine  shall  wake, 
For  thine  and  for  the  Church's  sake  ? 

Who  summon  to  the  scene 
Of  conquest  and  unsparing  strife, 
And  vengeance  dearer  than  his  life, 

The  fiery-souled  Castine  ?  *  7 
Three  backward  steps  the  Jesuit  takes, — 
His  long  thin  frame  as  ague  shakes  ; 

And  loathing  hate  is  in  his  eye, 


As  from  his  lips  these  words  of  fear 
Fall  hoarsely  on  the  maiden's  ear, — 

"  The  soul  that  sinneth  shall  surely  die  !  " 

She  stands,  as  stands  the  stricken  deer, 
Checked  midway  in  the  fearful  chase, 

When  bursts,  upon  his  eye  and  ear, 

The  gaunt,  gray  robber,  baying  near, 
Between  him  and  his  hiding-place ; 

While  still  behind,  with  yell  and  blow, 

Sweeps,  like  a  storm,  the  coming  foe. 

u  Save  me,  O  holy  man  !  "—her  cry 
Fills  all  the  void,  as  if  a  tongue, 
Unseen,  from  rib  and  rafter  hung, 

Thrilling  with  mortal  agony  ; 

Her  hands  are  clasping  the  Jesuit's  knee, 
And  her  eye  looks  fearfully  into  his  own  ;— 

"  Off,  woman  of  sin  ! — nay,  touch  not  me 
With  those  fingers  of  blood  ; — begone  !  " 

With  a  gesture  of  horror,  he  spurns  the  form 

That  writhes  at  his  feet  like  a  trodden  worm. 

Ever  thus  the  spirit  must, 

Guilty  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 

With  a  keener  woe  be  riven, 
For  its  weak  and  sinful  trust 
In  the  strength  of  human  dust ; 

And  its  anguish  thrill  afresh, 
For  each  vain  reliance  given 

To  the  failing  arm  of  flesh. 


PART  III. 

AH,  weary  Priest ! — with  pale  hands  pressed 

On  thy  throbbing  brow  of  pain, 
Baffled  in  thy  life-long  quest, 
Overworn  with  toiling  vain, 
How  ill  thy  troubled  musings  fit 
The  holy  quiet  of  a  breast 
With  the  Dove  of  Peace  at  rest, 
Sweetly  brooding  over  it. 
Thoughts  are  thine  which  have  no  part 
With  the  meek  and  pure  of  heart, 
Undisturbed  by  outward  things, 
Resting  in  the  heavenly  shade, 
By  the  overspreading  wings 

Of  the  Blessed  Spirit  made. 
Thoughts  of  strife  and  hate  and  wrong 
Sweep  thy  heated  brain  along, 
Fading  hopes  for  whose  success 

It  were  sin  to  breathe  a  prayer  ; — 
Schemes  which  Heaven  may  never  bless, — 

Fears  which  darken  to  despair. 
Hoary  priest !  thy  dream  is  done 
Of  a  hundred  red  tribes  won 

To  the  pale  of  Holy  Church  ; 
And  the  heretic  o'er  thrown, 
And  his  name  no  longer  known, 
And  thy  weary  brethren  turning, 
Joyful  from  their  years  of  mourning, 
'Twixt  the  altar  and  the  porch. 
Hark  !  what  sudden  sound  is  heard 

In  the  wood  and  in  the  sky, 
Shriller  than  the  scream  of  bird, — 

Than  the  trumpet's  clang  more  high  ! 
Every  wolf-cave  of  the  hills, — 
Forest  arch  and  mountain  gorge, 
Rock  and  dell,  and  river  verge, — 
With  an  answering  echo  thrills. 
Well  does  the  Jesuit  know  that  cry, 
Which  summons  the  Norridgewock  to  die, 
And  tells  that  the  foe  of  his  flock  is  nigh. 
He  listens,  and  hears  the  rangers  come, 
With  loud  hurrah,  and  jar  of  drum, 
And  hurrying  feet  (for  the  chase  is  hot), 
And  the  short,  sharp  sound  of  rifle  shot, 
And  taunt  and  menace, — answered  well 
By  the  Indians'  mocking  cry  and  yell, — 
The  bark  of  dogs, — the  squaw's  mad  scream, — 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


10 


The  dash  of  paddles  along  the  stream, — 
The  whistle  of  shot  as  it  cuts  the  leaves 
Of  the  maples  around  the  church's  eaves, — 
And  the  gride  of  hatchets  fiercely  thrown, 
On  wigwam-log  and  tree  and  stone. 
Black  with  the  grime  of  paint  and  dust, 

Spotted  and  streaked  with  human  gore, 
A  grim  and  naked  head  is  thrust 

Within  the  chapel-door. 
"  Ha— Bomazeen  !— In  God's  name  say, 
What  mean  these  sounds  of  bloody  fray  ?  " 
Silent,  the  Indian  points  his  hand 

To  where  across  the  echoing  glen 
Sweep  Harmon's  dreaded  ranger-band, 

And  Moulton  with  his  men. 
"  Where  are  thy  warriors,  Bomazeen  ? 
Where  are  De  Rouville  18  and  Castine, 
And  where  the  braves  of  Sawga's  queen  ?  " 
"Let  my  father  find  the  winter  snow 
Which  the  sun  drank  up  long  moons  ago  ! 
Under  the  falls  of  Tacconock, 
The  wolves  are  eating  the  Norridgewock  ; 
Castine  with  his  wives  lies  closely  hid 
Like  a  fox  in  the  woods  of  Pemaquid  ! 
On  Sawga's  banks  the  man  of  war 
Sits  in  his  wigwam  like  a  squaw, — 
Squando  has  fled,  and  Mogg  Megone, 
Struck  by  the  knife  of  Sagamore  John, 
Lies  stiff  and  stark  and  cold  as  a  stone." 

Fearfully  over  the  Jesuit's  face, 

Of  a  thousand  thoughts,  trace  after  trace, 

Like  swift  cloud-shadows,  each  other  chase. 

One  instant,  his  fingers  grasp  his  knife, 

For  a  last  vain  struggle  for  cherished  life, — 

The  next,  he  hurls  the  blade  away, 

And  kneels  at  his  altar's  foot  to  pray  ; 

Over  his  beads  his  fingers  stray, 

And  he  kisses  the  cross,  and  calls  aloud 

On  the  Virgin  and  her  Son  ; 

For  terrible  thoughts  his  memory  crowd 

Of  evil  seen  and  doue,  — 
Of  scalps  brought  home  by  his  savage  flock 
From  Oasco  and  Sawga  and  Sagadahock 

In  the  Church's  service  won. 

No  shrift  the  gloomy  savage  brooks, 

As  scowling  on  the  priest  he  looks : 

"  Cowesass— cowesass— tawhich  wessaseen?19 

Lei*  my  father  look  upon  Bomazeen,  — 

My  father's  heart  is  the  heart  of  a  squaw, 

But  mine  is  so  hard  that  it  does  not  thaw ; 

Let  my  father  ask  his  God  to  make 

A  dance  and  a  feast  for  a  great  sagamore, 
When  lie 'pad dies  across  the  western  lake, 

With  his  dogs  and  his  squaws  to  the  spirit'! 

shore. 

Cowesass — cowesass — tawhich  wessaseen  ? 
Let  my  father  die  like  Bomazeen !  " 

Through  the  chapel's  narrow  doors, 

And  through  each  window  in  the  walls, 
Round  the  priest  and  warrior  pours 

The  deadly  shower  of  English  balls. 
Low  on  his  cross  the  Jesuit  falls ; 
While  at  his  side  the  Norridgewock, 
With  failing  breath,  essays  to  mock 
And  menace  yet  the  hated  foe, — 
Shakes  his  scalp-trophies  to  and  fro 

Exultingly  before  their  eyes, — 
Till,  cleft  and  torn  by  shot  and  blow, 

Defiant  still,  he  dies. 

"  So  fare  all  eaters  of  the  frog ! 
Death  to  the  Babylonish  dog  ! 

Down  with  the  beast  of  Rome  !" 
With  shouts  like  these,  around  the  dead, 
Unconscious  on  his  bloody  bed, 

The  rangers  crowding  come. 


I  Brave  men  !  the  dead  priest  cannot  hear 
j  The  unfeeling  taunt, — the  brutal  jeer; — 
I  Spurn — for  he  sees  ye  not — in  wrath, 
The  symbol  of  your  Saviour's  death  ; 

Tear  from  his  death-grasp,  in  your  zeal, 
And  trample,  as  a  thing  accursed, 
The  cross  he  cherished  in  the  dust : 
The  dead  man  cannot  feel ! 

Brutal  alike  in  deed  and  word. 

With  callous  heart  and  hand  of  strife, 
How  like  a  fiend  may  man  be  made, 
Plying  the  foul  and  monstrous  trade 

Whose  harvest-field  is  human  life, 
i  Whose  sickle  is  the  reeking  sword ! 
i  Quenching,  with  reckless  hand  in  blood, 
:  Sparks  kindled  by  the  breath  of  God ; 
Urging  the  deathless  soul,  unshriven, 

Of  open  guilt  or  secret  sin, 
Before  the  bar  of  that  pure  Heaven 

The  holy  only  enter  in  ! 
O,  by  the  widow's  sore  distress, 
The  orphan's  wailing  wretchedness, 
By  Virtue  struggling  in  the  accursed 
Embraces  of  polluting  Last, 
By  the  fell  discord  of  the  Pit, 
And  the  pained  souls  that  people  it, 
And  by  the  blessed  peace  which  fills 

The  Paradise  of  God  forever, 
Resting  on  all  its  holy  hills, 

And  flowing  with  its  crystal  river, — 
Let  Christian  hands  no  longer  bear 

In  triumph  on  his  crimson  car 

The  foul  and  idol  god  of  war ; 
No  more  the  purple  wreaths  prepare 
I  To  bind  amid  his  snaky  hair  ; 
Nor  Christian  bards  his  glories  tell, 
Nor  Christian  tongues  his  praises  swell 

Through  the  gun-smoke  wreathing  white, 

Glimpses  on  the  soldiers'  sight 
I  A  thing  of  human  shape  I  ween, 
|  For  a  moment  only  seen, 

With  its  loose  hair  backward  streaming, 

And  its  eyeballs  madly  gleaming, 

Shrieking,  like  a  soul  in  pain, 
From  the  world  of  light  and  breath, 

Hurrying  to  its  place  again, 
Spectre-like  it  vanisheth ! 

Wretched  girl !  one  eye  alone 
Notes  the  way  which  thou  hast  gone. 
That  great  Eye,  which  slumbers  never, 
Watching  o'er  a  lost  world  ever, 
Tracks  thee  over  vale  and  mountain, 
By  the  gushing  forest-fountain, 
Plucking  from  the  vine  its  fruit, 
Searching  for  the  ground-nut's  root, 
Peering  in  the  she-wolf's  den, 
Wading  through  the  marshy  fen, 
Where  the  sluggish  water-snake 
Basks  beside  the  sunny  brake, 
Coiling  in  his  slimy  bed, 
Smooth  and  cold  against  thy  tread, — 
Purposeless,  thy  mazy  way 
Threading  through  the  lingering  day. 
And  at  night  securely  sleeping 
Where  the  dogwood's  dews  are  weeping  ! 
Still,  though  earth  and  man  discard  thee, 
Doth  thy  Heavenly  Father  guard  thee  : 
He  who  spared  the  guilty  Cain, 

Even  when  a  brother's  blood, 

Crying  in  the  ear  of  God, 
Gave  the  earth  its  primal  stain, — 
He  whose  mercy  ever  liveth, 
Who  repenting  guilt  forgiveth, 
And  the  broken  heart  receiveth, — 
Wanderer  of  the  wilderness, 

Haunted,  guilty,  crazed,  and  wild, 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


He  regardeth  thy  distress, 

And  careth  for  his  sinful  child  ! 

'T  is  springtime  on  the  eastern  hills  ! 
Like  torrents  gush  the  summer  rills  ; 
Through  winter's  moss  and  dry  dead  leaves 
The  bladed  grass  revives  and  lives, 
Pushes  the  mouldering  waste  away, 
And  glimpses  to  the  \April  day. 
In  kindly  shower  and  sunshine  bud 
The  branches  of  the  dull  gray  wood  ; 
Out  from  its  sunned  and  sheltered  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks  ; 

The  southwest  wind  is  warmly  blowing, 
And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  pine-tree  and  the  sassafras, 

Are  with  it  on  its  errands  going. 

A  band  is  marching  through  the  wood 
Where  rolls  the  Kennebec  his  flood, — 
The  warriors  of  the  wilderness, 
Painted,  and  in  their  battle  dress  ; 
And  with  them  one  whose  bearded  cheek, 
And  white  and  wrinkled  brow,  bespeak 

A  wanderer  from  the  shores  of  France. 
A  few  long  locks  of  scattering  snow 
Beneath  a  battered  morion  flow, 
And  from  the  rivets  of  the  vest 
Which  girds  in  steel  his  ample  breast, 

The  slanted  sunbeams  glance. 
In  the  harsh  outlines  of  his  face 
Passion  and  sin  have  left  their  trace  ; 
Yet,  save  worn  brow  and  thin  gray  hair, 
No  signs  of  weary  age  are  there. 

His  step  is  firm,  his  eye  is  keen, 
Nor  years  in  broil  and  battle  spent, 
Nor  toil,  nor  wounds,  nor  pain  have  bent 

The  lordly  frame  of  old  Castine. 

No  purpose  now  of  strife  and  blood 

Urges  the  hoary  veteran  on  : 
The  fire  of  conquest  and  the  mood 

Of  Chivalry  have  gone. 
A  mournful  task  is  his, — to  lay 

Within  the  earth  the  bones  of  those 
Who  perished  in  that  fearful  day, 
When  Norridgewock  became  the  prey 

Of  all  unsparing  foes. 
Sadly  and  still,  dark  thoughts  between, 
Of  coming  vengeance  mused  Castine, 
Of  the  fallen  chieftain  Bomazeen, 
Who  bade  for  him  the  Norridgewocks 
Dig  up  their  buried  tomahawks 

For  firm  defence  or  swift  attack  ; 
And  him  whose  friendship  formed  the  tie 


Which  held  the  stern  self -exile  back 

From  lapsing  into  savagery  ; 

Whose  garb  and  tone  and  kindly  glance 
Recalled  a  younger,  happier  day, 
And  prompted  memory's  fond  essay, 
To  bridge  the  mighty  waste  which  lay 
Between  his  wild  home  and  that  gray, 

Tall  chateau  of  his  native  France, 

Whose  chapel  bell,  with  far-heard  din, 

Ushered  his  birth-hour  gayly  in, 

And  counted  with  its  solemn  toll 

The  masses  for  his  father's  soul. 

Hark  !  from  the  foremost  of  the  band 

Suddenly  bursts  the  Indian  yell ; 
For  now  on  the  very  spot  they  stand 

Where  the  Norridgewocks  fighting  fell. 
No  wigwam  smoke  is  curling  there  ; 
The  very  earth  is  scorched  and  bare  ; 
And  they  pause  and  listen  to  catch  a  sound 

Of  breathing  life, — but  there  comes  not  ona, 
Save  the  fox's  bark  and  the  rabbit's  bound  ; 
But  here  and  there,  on  the  blackened  ground, 

White  bones  are  glistening  in  the  sun. 
And  where  the  house  of  prayer  arose, 
And  the  holy  hymn,  at  daylight's  close, 
And  the  aged  priest  stood  up  to  bless 
The  children  of  the  wilderness, 
There  is  naught  save  ashes  sodden  and  dank  ; 

And  the  birchen  boats  of  the  Norridgewock, 

Tethered  to  tree  and  stump  and  rock, 
Rotting  along  the  river  bank  ! 

Blessed  Mary  !  who  is  she 

Leaning  against  that  maple -tree  ?    • 

The  sun  upon  her  face  burns  hot, 

But  the  fixed  eyelid  moveth  not ; 

The  squirrel's  chirp  is  shrill  and  clear 

From  the  dry  bough  above  her  ear  ; 

Dashing  from  rock  and  root  its  spray, 
Close  at  her  feet  the  river  rushes ; 
The  blackbird's  wing  against  her  brushes, 
And  sweetly  through  the  hazel- bushes 
The  robin's  mellow  music  gushes  ; — 

God  save  her !  will  she  sleep  away  ! 

Castine  hath  bent  him  over  the  sleeper  : 

u  Wake,  daughter, — wake  !  " — but  she  stirs  no 

limb : 
The  eye  that  looks  on  him  is  fixed  and  dim  ; 

And  the  sleep  she  is  sleeping  shall  be  no  deeper, 
Until  the  angel's  oath  is  said, 

And  the  final  blast  of  the  trump  goes  forth 

To  the  graves  of  the  sea  and  the  graves  of  earth. 

RUTH  BONYTHON  IS  DEAD  ! 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PEISTNACOOK5 


1848. 


WE  had  been  wandering  for  many  days 
Through  the  rough  northern  country. 

We  had  seen 

The  sunset,  with  its  bars  of  purple  cloud, 
Like  a  new  heaven,  shine  upward  from  the  lake 
Of  Winnepiseogee ;  and  had  felt 
The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  the  leafy  isles 
Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to  the  lips 
Of  the  bright  waters.    We  had  checked  our  steeds, 
Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  mountain  wall 
Is  piled  to  heaven ;  and,  through  the  narrow  rift 
Of  the  vast  rock,  against  whose  rugged  feet 
Beats  the  mad  torrent  with  perpetual  roar, 
Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the  wind 


Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting  moan 
Of  forests  and  of  far-off  waterfalls, 
We  had  looked  upward  where  the  summer  sky, 
Tasselled  with  clouds  light- woven  by  the  sun, 
Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  the  abutting  crags 
O'er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the  land 
Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.     We  had  passed 
The  high  source  of  the  Saco  ;  and  bewildered 
In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crystal  Hills, 
Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in  the  cloud, 
The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding  ;  and  atop 
Of  old  Agioochook  had  seen  the  mountains 
Piled  to  the  northward,  shagged  with  wood,  and 
thick 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


As  meadow  mole-hills, — the  far  sea  of  Casco, 
A  white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the  east ; 
Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods  and  hills  ; 
Moosehillock's  mountain  range,  and  Kearsarge 
Lifting  his  Titan  forehead  to  the  sun  ! 

I 

And  we  had  rested  underneath  the  oaks 
Shadowing  the  bank,   whose  grassy  spires    are 

shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 
Of  the  wild  Ammonoosuc.     We  had  tracked 
The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 
By  beechen  shadows,  whitening  down  its  rocks, 
Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 
From  waving  rye-fields  sending  up  the  gleam 
Of  sunlit  waters.     We  had  seen  the  moon 
Rising  behind  Umbagog's  eastern  pines, 
Like  a  great  Indian  camp-fire  ;  and  its  beams 
At  midnight  spanning  with  a  bridge  of  silver 
The  Merrimack  by  Uncanoonuc's  falls. 

There  were  five  souls  of  us  whom  travel's  chance 
Had  thrown  together  in  these  wild  north  hills  : — 
A  city  lawyer,  for  a  month  escaping 
From  his  dull  office,  where  the  weary  eye 
Saw  only  hot  brick  walls   and  close    thronged 

streets, — 

Briefless  as  yet,  but  with  an  eye  to  see 
Life's  sunniest  side,  and  with  a  heart  to  take 
Its  chances  all  as  godsends  ;  and  his  brother, 
Pale  from  long  pulpit  studies,  yet  retaining 
The  warmth  and  freshness  of  a  genial  heart, 
Whose  mirror  of  the  beautiful  and  true, 
In  Man  and  Nature,  was  as  yet  undimmed 
By  dust  of  theologic  strife,  or  breath 
Of  sect,  or  cobwebs  of  scholastic  lore ; 
Like  a  clear  crystal  calm  of  water,  taking 
The  hue  and  image  of  o'erleaning  flowers, 
Sweet  human  faces,  white  clouds  of  the  noon, 
Slant  starlight  glimpses  through  the  dewy  leaves, 
And  tenderest  moonrise.     T  was,   in  truth,   a  | 

study, 

To  mark  his  spirit,  alternating  between 
A  decent  and  professional  gravity 
And  an  irreverent  mirthf ulness,  which  often 
Laughed  in  the  face  of  his  divinity, 
Plucked  off  the  sacred  ephod,  quite  unshrined 
The  oracle,  and  for  the  pattern  priest 
Left  us  the  man.    A  shrewd,  sagacious  merchant, 
To  whom  the  soiled  sheet  found  in  Crawford's 

inn, 

Giving  the  latest  news  of  city  stocks 
And  sales  of  cotton,  had  a  deeper  meaning 
Than  the  great  presence  of  the  awful  mountains 
Glorified  by  the  sunset ;  and  his  daughter 
A  delicate  flower  on  whom  had  blown  too  long 
Those  evil  winds,  which,  sweeping  from  the  ice 
And  winnowing  the  fogs  of  Labrador, 
Shed  their  cold  blight  round  Massachusetts  Bay, 
With  the  same  breath  which  stirs  Spring's  open 
ing  leaves 

And  lifts  her  half -formed  flower-bell  on  its  stem, 
Poisoning  our  seaside  atmosphere. 

It  chanced 

That  as  we  turned  upon  our  homeward  way, 
A  drear  northeastern  storm  came  howling  up 
The  valley  of  the  Saco ;  and  that  girl 
Who  had  stood  with  us  upon  Mount  Washington,  ! 
Her  brown  locks  ruffled  by  the  wind  which  whirled  j 
In  gusts  around  its  sharp  cold  pinnacle, 
Who   had   joined   our   gay   trout-fishing  in    the 

streams 
Which  lave  that  giant's  feet ;  whose  laugh  was 

heard 

Like  a  bird's  carol  on  the  sunrise  breeze 
Which  swelled  our  sail  amidst  the  lake's  green 

islands, 
Shrank  from  its  harsh,  chill  breath,  and  visibly 

drooped 


Like  a  flower  in  the  frost.     So,  in  that  quiet  inn 
Which  looks  from  Conway  on  the   mountains 

piled 

Heavily  against  the  horizon  of  the  north, 
Like  summer  thunder-clouds,  we  made  our  home  : 
And  while  the  mist  hung  over  dripping  hills, 
And  the  cold  wind-driven  rain-drops  all  day  long 
Beat  their  sad  music  upon  roof  and  pane, 
We  strove  to  cheer  our  gentle  invalid. 

The  lawyer  in  the  pauses  of  the  storm 
Went  angling  down  the  Saco,  and,  returning, 
Recounted  his  adventures  and  mishaps  ; 
Gave  us  the  history  of  his  scaly  clients, 
Mingling  with  ludicrous  yet  apt  citations 
Of  barbarous  law  Latin,  passages  • 

From  Izaak  AValton's  Angler,  sweet  and  fresh 
As  the  flower-skirted  streams  of  Staffordshire, 
Where,  under  aged  trees,  the  southwest  wind 
Of  soft  June  mornings  fanned  the  thin,  white 

hair 

Of  the  sage  fisher.     And,  if  truth  be  told, 
Our  youthful  candidate  forsook  his  sermons, 
His  commentaries,  articles  and  creeds, 
For  the  fair  page  of  human  loveliness, — 
The  missal  of  young  hearts,  whose  sacred  text 
Is  music,  its  illumining  sweet  smiles. 
He  sang  the  songs  she  loved  ;  and  in  his  low, 
Deep,  earnest  voice,  recited  many  a  page 
Of  poetry, — the  holiest,  tenderest  lines 
Of  the  sad  bard  of  Olney, — the  sweet  songs, 
Simple  and  beautiful  as  Truth  and  Nature, 
Of  him  whose  whitened  locks  on  Rydal  Mount 
Are  lifted  yet  by  morning  breezes  blowing 
From  the  green  hills,  immortal  in  his  lays. 
And  for  myself,  obedient  to  her  wish, 
I  searched  our  landlord's  proffered  library, — 
A  well-thumbed  Bunyan,  with  its  nice  wood  pic 
tures 

Of  scaly  fiends  and  angels  not  unlike  them, — 
Watts'  unmelodious  psalms, — Astrology's 
Last  home,  a  musty  pile  of  almanacs, 
And  an  old  chronicle  of  border  wars 
And  Indian  history.     And,  as  I  read 
A  story  of  the  marriage  of  the  Chief 
Of  Saugus  to  the  dusky  Weetamoo, 
Daughter  of  Passaconaway,  who  dwelt 
In  the  old  time  upon  the  Merrimack, 
Our  fair  one,  in  the  playful  exercise 
Of  her  prerogative, — the  right  divine 
Of  youth  and  beauty, — bade  us  versify 
The  legend,  and  with  ready  pencil  sketched 
Its  plans  and  outlines,  laughingly  assigning 
To  each  his  part,  and  barring  our  excuses, 
With  absolute  will.     So,  like  the  cavaliers 
Whose  voices  still  are  heard  in  the  Romance 
Of  silver-tongued  Boccaccio,  on  the  banks 
Of  Arno,  with  soft  tales  of  love  beguiling 
The  ear  of  languid  beauty,  plague  exiled 
From  stately  Florence,  we  rehearsed  our  rhymes 
To  their  fair  auditor,  and  shared  by  turns 
Her  kind  approval  and  her  playful' censure. 

It  may  be  that  these  fragments  owe  alone 
To  the  fair  setting  of  their  circumstances, — 
The  associations  of  time,  scene,  and  audience, — 
Their  place  amid  the  pictures  which  fill  up 
The  chambers  of  my  memory.     Yet  I  trust 
That  some,  who  sigh,  while  wandering  in  thought. 
Pilgrims  of  Romance  o'er  the  olden  world, 
That   our  broad   land, — our   sea-like   lakes  and 

mountains 

Piled  to  the  clouds, — our  rivers  overhung 
By  forests  which  have  known  no  other  change 
For  ages,  than  the  budding  and  the  fall 
Of  leaves, — our  valleys  lovelier  than  those 
Which  the  old  poets  sang  of, — should  but  figure 
On  the  apocryphal  chart  of  speculation 
As  pastures,  wood-lots,  mill-sites,  with  the  privi 
leges, 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


Rights,  and  appurtenances,  which  make  up 

A  Yankee  Paradise, — unsung,  unknown, 

To  beautiful  tradition  ;  even  their  names, 

Whose  melody  yet  lingers  like  the  last 

Vibration  of  the  red  man's  requiem, 

Exchanged  for  syllables  significant 

Of  cotton-mill  and  rail-car,  will  look  kindly 

Upon  this  effort  to  call  up  the  ghost 

Of  our  dim  Past,  and  listen  with  pleased  ear 

To  the  responses  of  the  questioned  Shade. 

I.    THE  MERRIMACK. 

O  CHILD  of  that  white-crested  mountain  whose 

springs 

Gush  forth  in  the  shade  of  the  cliff-eagle's  wings, 
Down    whose  slopes  to  the  lowlands    thy  wild 

waters  shine, 
Leaping   gray    walls  of   rock,  flashing   through 

the  dwarf  pine. 

From  that  cloud-curtained  cradle  so  cold  and  so 

lone, 
From  the  arms  of  that  wintry  -locked  mother  of 

stone, 
By  hills  hung  with  forests,   through  vales  wide 

and  free, 
Thy  mountain-born  brightness  glanced  down  to 

the  sea ! 

No  bridge  arched  thy  waters  save  that  where  the 

trees 
Stretched  their  long  arms  above  thee  and  kissed 

in  the  breeze : 
No  sound  save  the  lapse  of    the  waves  on  thy 

shores, 
The  plunging  of  otters,  the  light  dip  of  oars. 

Green-tuftsd,  oak-shaded,  by  Amoskeag's  fall 
Thy  twin  Uncanoonucs  rose  stately  and  tall, 
Thy  Nashua  meadows  lay  green  and  unshorn, 
And  the  hills  of  Pentucket  were  tasselled  with 
corn. 

But  thy  Pennacook  valley  was  fairer  than  these, 
And  greener  its  grasses  and  taller  its  trees, 
Ere  the  sound  of  an  axe  in  the  forest  had  rung, 
Or  the  mower  his  scythe  in  the  meadows  had 
swung. 

In  their  sheltered  repose  looking  out  from  the 

wood 

The  bark-builded  wigwams  of  Pennacook  stood, 
There  glided  the  corn-dance,  the  council-fire 

shone, 
And  against  the  red  war-post  the  hatchet  was 

thrown. 

There  the  old  smoked  in  silence  their  pipes,  and 
the  young 

To  the  pike  and  the  white- perch  their  baited 
lines  flung ; 

There  the  boy  shaped  his  arrows,  and  there  the 
shy  maid 

Wove  her  many-hued  baskets  and  bright  wam 
pum  braid. 

O  Stream  of  the  Mountains  !  if  answer  of  thine 
Could  rise  from  thy  waters  to  question  of  mine, 
Methinks  through  the  din  of  thy  thronged  banks 

a  moan 
Of  sorrow  would  swell  for  the  days  which  have 

gone. 

Not  for  thee  the  dull  jar  of  the  loom  and  the 

wheel, 

The  gliding  of  shiittles  the  ringing  of  steel ; 
But  that  old  voice  of  waters,  of  bird  and  of 

breeze, 
The  dip  of  the  wild-fowl,  the  rustling  of  trees  ! 


II.     THE   BASHABA.21 

LIFT  we  the  twilight  curtains  of  the  Past, 

And,  turning  from  familiar  sight  and  sound, 
;  Sadly  and  full  of  reverence  let  us  cast 

A  glance  upon  Tradition's  shadowy  ground, 
i  Led  by  the  few  pale  lights  which,  glimmering 

round 

That  dim,  strange  land  of  Eld,  seem  dying  fast ; 
|  And  that  which  history  gives  not  to  the  eye, 
j  The  faded  coloring  of  Time's  tapestry, 
j  Let  Fancy,  with  her  drea.m-dipped  brush,  supply. 

|  Roof  of  bark  and  walls  of  pine, 
I  Through  whose  chinks  the  sunbeams  shine, 
Tracing  many  a  golden  line 

On  the  ample  floor  within  ; 
|  Where,  upon  that  earth-floor  stark, 
Lay  the  gaudy  mats  of  bark, 
With  the  bear's  hide,  rough  and  dark, 
And  the  red-deer's  skin. 

Window-tracery,  small  and  slight, 
Woven  of  the  willow  white, 
Lent  a  dimly  checkered  light, 

And  the  night-stars  glimmered  down, 
I  Where  the  lodge-fire's  heavy  smoke, 
i  Slowly  through  an  opening  broke, 
I  In  the  low  roof,  ribbed  with  oak, 
Sheathed  with  hemlock  brown. 

|  Gloomed  behind  the  changeless  shade, 
i  By  the  solemn  pine- wood  made ; 
Through  the  rugged  palisade, 

In  the  open  foreground  planted, 
Glimpses  came  of  rowers  rowing, 
Stir  of  leaves  and  wild-flowers  blowing, 
Steel-like  gleams  of  water  flowing, 
In  the  sunlight  slanted. 

Here  the  mighty  Bashaba 

Held  his  long-unquestioned  sway, 

From  the  White  Hills,  far  away, 

To  the  great  sea's  sounding  shore  ; 
Chief  of  chiefs,  his  regal  word 
All  the  river  Sachems  heard, 
At  his  call  the  war-dance  stirred, 

Or  was  still  once  more. 

I  There  his  spoils  of  chase  and  war, 
Jaw  of  wolf  and  black  bear's  paw, 
I  Panther's  skin  and  eagle's  claw. 

Lay  beside  his  axe  and  bow ; 
|  And,  adown  the  roof -pole  hung, 
i  Loosely  on  a  snake-skin  strung, 
In  the  smoke  his  scalp-locks  swung 
Grimly  to  and  fro. 

Nightly  down  the  river  going, 

Swifter  was  the  hunter's  rowing, 

When  he  saw  that  lodge-fire  glowing 
'     O'er  the  waters  still  and  red  ; 
!  And  the  squaw's  dark  eye  burned  brighter, 
i  And  she  drew  her  blanket  tighter, 

As,  with  quicker  step  and  lighter, 
From  that  door  she  fled. 

For  that  chief  had  magic  skill, 
I  And  a  Panisee's  dark  will, 
Over  powers  of  good  and  ill, 

Powers  which  bless  and  powers  which  ban, — 
Wizard  lord  of  Pennacook, 
Chiefs  upon  their  war-path  shook, 
When  they  met  the  steady  look 
Of  that  wise  dark  man. 

I  Tales  of  him  the  gray  squaw  told, 
j  When  the  winter  night-wind  cold 
i  Pierced  her  blanket's  thickest  fold, 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


23 


And  her  fire  burned  low  and  small, 
Till  the  very  child  abed, 
Drew  its  bear-skin  over  head, 
Shrinking  from  the  pale  lights  shed 

On  the  trembling  wall. 

All  the  subtle  spirits  hiding 
Under  earth  or  wave,  abiding 
In  the  caverned  rock,  or  riding 

Misty  clouds  or  morning  breeze  ; 
Every  dark  intelligence, 
Secret  soul,  and  influence 
Of  all  things  which  outward  sense 

Feels,  or  hears,  or  sees, 

These  the  wizard's  skill  confessed, 
At  his  bidding  banned  or  blessed, 
Stormf  ul  woke  or  lulled  to  rest 

Wind  and  cloud,  and  fire  and  flood ; 
Burned  for  him  the  drifted  snow, 
Bade  through  ice  fresh  lilies  blow, 
And  the  leaves  of  summer  grow 

Over  winter's  wood ! 

Not  untrue  that  tale  of  old  ! 
Now,  as  then,  the  wise  and  bold 
All  the  powers  of  Nature  hold 

Subject  to  their  kingly  will ; 
From  the  wondering  crowds  ashore, 
Treading  life's  wild  waters  o'er, 
As  upon  a  marble  floor, 

Moves  the  strong  man  still. 

Still,  to  such,  life's  elements 
With  their  sterner  laws  dispense, 
And  the  chain  of  consequence 

Broken  in  their  pathway  lies  ; 
Time  and  change  their  vassals  making, 
Flowers  from  icy  pillows  waking, 
Tresses  of  the  sunrise  shaking 

Over  midnight  skies. 

Still,  to  earnest  souls,  the  sun 
Rests  on  towered  Gibeon, 
And  the  moon  of  Ajalon 

Lights  the  battle-grounds  of  life  ; 
To  his  aid  the  strong  reverses 
Hidden  powers  and  giant  forces, 
And  the  high  stars,  in  their  courses, 

Mingle  in  his  strife ! 


III.    THE  DAUGHTER. 

THE  soot-black  brows  of  men,— the  yell 
Of  women  thronging  round  the  bed, — 
The  tinkling  charm  of  ring  and  shell,— 

The  Powah  whispering  o'er  the  dead  ! — 
All  these  the  Sachem's  home  had  known, 

When,  on  her  journey  long  and  wild 
To  the  dim  World  of  Souls,  alone, 
In  her  young  beauty  passed  the  mother  of  his 
child. 

Three  bow-shots  from  the  Sachem's  dwelling 

They  laid  her  in  the  walnut  shade, 
Where  a  green  hillock  gently  swelling 

Her  fitting  mound  of  burial  made. 
There  trailed  the  vine  in  summer  hours, 

The  tree-perched  squirrel  dropped  his  shell, — 
On  velvet  moss  and  pale-hued  flowers, 
Woven  with  leaf  and  spray,  the  softened  sunshine 
fell! 

The  Indian's  heart  is  hard  and  cold, — 

It  closes  darkly  o'er  its  care, 
And  formed  in  Nature's  sternest  mould, 

Is  slow  to  feel,  and  strong  to  bear. 
The  war-paint  on  the  Sachem's  face, 

Unwet  with  tears,  shone  fierce  and  red, 


And,  still  in  battle  or  in  chase, 
Dry  leaf  and  snow-rime  crisped  beneath  His  fore 
most  tread. 

Yet  when  her  name  was  heard  no  more. 
And  when  the  robe  her  mother  gave, 

And  small,  light  moccasin  she  wore, 
Had  slowly  wasted  on  her  grave, 

Unmarked  of  him  the  dark  maids  sped 
Their  sunset  dance  and  moonlit  play  ; 

No  other  shared  his  lonely  bed, 
No  other  fair  young  head  upon  his  bosom  lay. 

A  lone,  stern  man.     Yet,  as  sometimes 

The  tempest-smitten  tree  receives 
From  one  small  root  the  sap  which  climbs 
Its  topmost  spray  and  crowning  leaves, 
So  from  his  child  the  Sachem  drew 

A  life  of  Love  and  Hope,  and  felt 
His  cold  and  rugged  nature  through 
The  softness  and  the  warmth  of  her  young  being 
melt. 

A  laugh  which  in  the  woodland  rang 
Bemocking  April's  gladdest  bird, — 
A  light  and  graceful  form  which  sprang 

To  meet  him  when  his  step  was  heard, — 
Eyes  by  his  lodge-fire  flashing  dark, 

Small  fingers  stringing  bead  and  shell 
Or  weaving  mats  of  bright-hued  bark, — 
With  these  the  household-god  22  had  graced  his 
wigwam  well. 

Child  of  the  forest ! — strong  and  free, 

Slight-robed,  with  loosely  flowing  hair, 
She  swam  the  lake  or  climbed  the  tree, 

Or  struck  the  flying  bird  in  air. 
O'er  the  heaped  drifts  of  winter's  moon 

Her  snow-shoes  tracked  the  hunter's  way  ; 
And  dazzling  in  the  summer  noon 
The  blade  of  her  light  oar  threw  off  its  shower  of 
spray  ! 

Unknown  to  her  the  rigid  rule, 

The  dull  restraint,  the  chiding  frown, 
The  weary  torture  of  the  school, 

The  taming  of  wild  nature  down. 
Her  only  lore,  the  legends  told 

Around  the  hunter's  fire  at  night ; 
Stars  rose  and  set,  and  seasons  rolled, 
Flowers  bloomed  and  snow-flakes  fell,  unques 
tioned  in  her  sight. 

Unknown  to  her  the  subtle  skill 
With  which  the  artist-eye  can  traca 

In  rock  and  tree  and  lake  and  hill 
The  outlines  of  divinest  grace  ; 

Unknown  the  fine  soul's  keen  unrest, 
Which  sees,  admires,  yet  yearns  alway  ; 

Too  closely  on  her  mother's  breast 
To  note  her  smiles  of  love  the  child  of  Nature  lay  ! 

It  is  enough  for  such  to  be 

Of  common,  natural  things  a  part, 
To  feel,  with  bird  and  stream  and  tree, 

The  pulses  of  the  same  great  heart ; 
But  we,  from  Nature  long  exiled 

In  our  cold  homes  of  Art  and  Thought, 
Grieve  like  the  stranger-tended  child, 
Which  seeks  its  mother's  ar;ns,  and  sees  but  feels 
them  not. 

The  garden  rose  may  richly  bloom 

In  cultured  soil  and  genial  air 
To  cloud  the  light  of  Fashion's  room 

Or  droop  in  Beauty's  midnight  hair, 
In  lonelier  grace,  to  sun  and  dew 

The  sweetbrier  on  the  hillside  shows 
Its  single  leaf  and  fainter  hue, 
Untrained  and  wildly  free,  yet  still  a  sister  rose ! 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


Thus  o'er  the  heart  of  Weetamoo 
Their  mingling  shades  of  joy  and  ill 

The  instincts  of  hor  nature  threw, — 
The  savage  was  a  woman  still. 

Midst  outlines  dim  of  maiden  schemes, 
Heart-colored  prophecies  of  life, 

Rose  on  the  ground  of  her  young  dreams 
The  light  of  a  new  home, — the  lover  and  the  wife. 


IV.     THE  WEDDING. 

COOL  and  dark  fell  the  autumn  night, 
But  the  Bashaba1  s  wigwam  glowed  with  light, 
For  down  from  its  roof  by  green  withes  hung 
Flaring  and  smoking  the  pine  knots  swung. 

And  along  the  river  great  wood-fires 
Shot  into  the  night  their  long  red  spires, 
Showing  behind  the  tall,  dark  wood, 
Flashing  before  on  the  sweeping  flood. 

In  the  changeful  wind,  with  shimmer  and  shade, 
Now  high,  now  low,  that  firelight  played, 
On  tree-leaves  wet  with  evening  dews, 
On  gliding  water  and  still  canoes. 

The  trapper  that  night  on  Turee's  brook, 
And  the  weary  fisher  on  Contoocook, 
Saw  over  the  marshes  and  through  the  pine, 
And  down  on  the  river  the  dance-lights  shine. 

For  the  Saugus  Sachem  had  come  to  woo 
The  Bashaba's  daughter  Weetamoo, 
And  laid  at  her  father's  feet  that  night 
His  softest  furs  and  wampum  white. 

From  the  Crystal  Hills  to  the  far  southeast 
The  river  Sagamores  came  to  the  feast ; 
And  chiefs  whose  homes  the  sea-winds  shook, 
Sat  down  on  the  mats  of  Pennacook. 

They  came  from  Sunapee's  shore  of  rock, 
From  the  snowy  sources  of  Snooganock, 
And  from  rough  Coos  whose  thick  woods  shake 
Their  pine-cones  in  Umbagog  Lake. 

From  Ammonoosuc's  mountain  pass, 
Wild  as  his  home,  came  Chepewass ; 
And  the  Keenomps  of  the  hills  which  throw 
Their  shade  on  the  Smile  of  Manito. 

With  pipes  of  peace  and  bows  unstrung, 
Glowing  with  paint  came  old  and  young, 
In  wampum  and  furs  and  feathers  arrayed, 
To  the  dance  and  feast  the  Bashaba  made. 

Bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  waters  yield, 
On  dishes  of  birch  and  hemlock  piled, 
Garnished  and  graced  that  banquet  wild. 

Steaks  of  the  brown  bear  fat  and  large 
From  the  rocky  slopes  of  the  Kearsarge ; 
Delicate  trout  from  Babboosuck  brook, 
And  salmon  speared  in  the  Contoocook  ; 

Squirrels  which  fed  where  nuts  fell  thick 
In  the  gravelly  bed  of  the  Otternic ; 
And  small  wild-hens  in  reed-snares  caught 
From  the  banks  of  Sondagardee  brought ; 

Pike  and  perch  from  the  Suncook  taken, 
Nuts  from  the  trees  of  the  Black  Hills  shaken, 
Cranberries  picked  in  the  Squamscot  bog, 
And  grapes  from  the  vines  of  Piscataquog : 

And,   drawn  from  that  great  stone  vase  which 

stands 
In  ths  river  scooped  by  a  spirit's  hands,'" 


Garnished  with  spoons  of  shell  and  horn, 
Stood  the  birchen  dishes  of  smoking  corn. 

Thus  bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  the  waters  yield, 
Furnished  in  that  olden  day 
The  bridal  feast  of  the  Bashaba. 

And  merrily  when  that  feast  was  done 
On  the  fire-lit  green  the  dance  begun, 
With  squaws'  shrill  stave,  and  deeper  hum 
Of  old  men  beating  the  Indian  drum. 

Painted  and  plumed,  with  scalp-locks  flowing, 
And  red  arms  tossing  and  black  eyes  glowing, 
Now  in  the  light  and  now  in  the  shade 
Around  the  fires  the  dancers  played. 

The  step  was  quicker,  the  song  more  shrill, 
And  the  beat  of  the  small  drums  louder  still 
Whenever  within  the  circle  drew 
The  Saugus  Sachem  and  Weetamoo. 

The  moons  of  forty  winters  had  shed 
Their  snow  upon  that  chieftain's  head, 
And  toil  and  care,  and  battle's  chance 
Had  seamed  his  hard  dark  countenance. 

A  fawn  beside  the  bison  grim, — 
Why  turns  the  bride's  fond  eye  on  him, 
In  whose  cold  look  is  naught  beside 
The  triumph  of  a  sullen  pride  ? 

Ask  why  the  graceful  grape  entwines 
The  rough  oak  with  her  arm  of  vines  ; 
And  why  the  gray  rock's  rugged  cheek 
The  soft  lips  of  the  mosses  seek : 

Why,  with  wise  instinct,  Nature  seems 
To  harmonize  her  wide  extremes, 
Linking  the  stronger  with  the  weak, 
The  haughty  with  the  soft  and  meek  ! 


V.   THE  NEW  HOME. 

A  WILD  and  broken  landscape,  spiked  with  firs, 
Roughening  the  bleak  horizon's  northern  edge, 
Steep,  cavernous  hillsides,  where  black  hemlock 

spurs 
And  sharp,  gray  splinters  of  the  wind-swept 

ledge 

Pierced  the  thin-glazed  ice,  or  bristling  rose, 
Where  the  cold  rim  of  the  sky  sunk  down  upon 
the  snows. 

And  eastward  cold,  wide  marshes  stretched  away, 
Dull,  dreary  flats  without  a  bush  or  tree, 

O'er-crossed  by  icy  creeks,  where  twice  a  day 
Gurgled  the  waters  of  the  moon-struck  sea  ; 

And  faint  with  distance  came  the  stifled  roar, 

The  melancholy  lapse  of  waves  on  that  low  shore. 

No  cheerful  village  with  its  mingling  smokes, 
No  laugh  of  children  wrestling  in  the  snow, 

No  camp-fire  blazing  through  the  hillside  oaks, 
No  fishers  kneeling  on  the  ice  below  ; 

Yet  midst  all  desolate  things  of  sound  and  view. 

Through  the  long  winter  moons  smiled  dark-eyed 
Weetamoo. 

Her  heart  had  found  a  home  ;  and  freshly  all 

Its  beautiful  affections  overgrew 
Their  rugged  prop.     As  o'er  some  granite  wall 
Soft  vine-leaves  open  to  the  moistening  dew 
And  warm  bright  sun,   the  love  of  thac  young 

wife 

I  Found  on  a  hard  cold  breast  the  clew  and  warmth 
of  life. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


The  steep  bleak  hills,  the  melancholy  shore, 
The  long  dead  level  of  the  marsh  between, 

A  coloring  of  unreal  beauty  wore 
Through  the  soft  golden  mist  of  young  love 
seen. 

For  o'er  those  hills  and  from  that  dreary  plain, 


VI.   AT   PENNACOOK. 

THE  hills  are  dearest  which  our  childish  feet 
Have  climbed  the  earliest ;  and  the  streams  most 
sweet 


Nightly  she  welcomed  home  her  hunter    chief  j  Are  ever  those  at  which  our  young  lips  drank, 
again.  |  Stooped  to  their  waters  o'er  the  grassy  bank  : 


No  warmth  of  heart,  no  passionate  burst  of  feel 
ing, 

Repaid  her  welcoming  smile  and  parting  kiss, 
No  fond  and  playful  dalliance  half  concealing, 

Under  the  guise  of  mirth,  its  tenderness  ; 
But  in  their  stead,  the  warrior's  settled  pride, 
And  vanity's  pleased  smile  with  homage  satisfied. 

Enough  for  Weetamoo,  that  she  alone 

Sat  on  his  mat  and  slumbered  at  his  side  ; 

That  he  whose  fame  to  her  young  ear  had  flown 
Now  looked  upon  her  proudly  as  his  bride  ; 

That  he  whose  nama  the  Mohawk  trembling  heard 

Vouchsafed  to  her  at  times  a  kindly  look  or 
word. 

For  she  had  learned  the  maxims  of  her  race, 
Which  teach  the  woman  to  become  a  slave 

And  feel  herself  the  pardonless  disgrace 

Of  love's  fond  weakness  in  the  wise  and  brave, — 

The  scandal  and  tha  shame  which  they  incur, 

Who  give  to  woman  all  which  man  requires  of 
her. 

So  passed  the  winter  moons.     The  sun  at  last 

Broke  link  by  link  the  frost  chain  of  the  rills, 
And  the  warm  breathings  of  the  southwest  passed 

Over  the  hoar  rime  of  the  Saugus  hills, 
The   gray  and  desolate  marsh  grew  green  once 

more, 

And  the  birch-tree's  tremulous  shade  fell  round 
the  Sachem's  door. 

Then  from  far  Pennacook  swift  runners  came, 
With  gift  and  greeting  for  the  Saugus  chief  ; 

Beseeching  him  in  the  great  Sachem's  name, 
That,  with  the  coming  of  the  flower  and  leaf, 

The  song  of  birds,  the  warm  breeze  and  the  rain, 

Young  Weetamoo   might  greet  her  lonely   sire 
again. 

And  Winnepurkit  called  his  chiefs  together, 
And  a  grave  council  in  his  wigwam  met, 

Solemn  and  brief  in  words,  considering  whether 
The  rigid  rules  of  forest  etiquette 

Permitted  Weetamoo  once  more  to  look 

Upon  her  father's  face  and  green-banked  Penna 
cook. 

With  interludes  of  pipe-smoke  and  strong  water, 
The  forest  sages  pondered,  and  at  length, 

Concluded  in  a  body  to  escort  her 

Up  toiler  father's  home  of  pride  and  strength, 

Impressing  thus  on  Pennacook  a  sense 

Of  Winnepurkit's  power  and  regal  consequence. 

So  through  old  woods  which  Aukeetamit's24  hand, 
A  soft  and  many-shaded  greenness  lent, 

Over  high  breezy  hills,  and  meadow  land 

Yellow  with  flowers,  the  wild  procession  went, 

Till,  rolling  down  its  wooded  banks  between, 

A  broad,  clear,  mountain  stream,  the  Merrimack 
was  seen. 

The  hunter  leaning  on  his  bow  undrawn, 
The  fisher  lounging  on  the  pebbled  shores, 

Squaws  in  the  clearing  dropping  the  seed-corn, 
Young  children  peering  through  the  wigwam 
doors, 

Saw  with  delight,  surrounded  by  her  train 

Of  painted  Saugus  braves,  their  Weetamoo  again. 


Midst  the  cold  dreary  sea-watch,  Home's  hearth- 
light 
I  Shines  round  the  helmsman  plunging  through  the 

night ; 

[  And  still,  with  inward  eye,  the  traveller  sees 
In  close,  dark,  stranger  streets  his  native  trees. 

The  homesick  dreamer's  brow  is  nightly  fanned 
,  By  breezes  whispering  of  his  native  land, 
!  And  on  the  stranger's  dim  and  dying  eye 
j  The  soft,  sweet  pictures  of  his  childhood  lie. 

j  Joy  then  for  Weetamoo,  to  sit  once  more 
I  A  child  upon  her  father's  wigwam  floor  ! 
Once  more  with  her  old  fondness  to  beguile 
From  his  cold  eye  the  strange  light  of  a  smile. 

The  long  bright  days  of  summer  swiftly  passed, 
The  dry  leaves  whirled  in  autumn's  rising  blast, 
And  evening  cloud  and  whitening  sunrise  rime, 
Told  of  the  coming  of  the  winter-time. 

But  vainly  looked,  the  while,  young  Weetamoo, 
Down  the  dark  river  for  her  chief's  canoe  ; 
No  dusky  messenger  from  Saugus  brought 
The  grateful  tidings  which  the  young  wife  sought. 

At  length  a  runner  from  her  father  sent, 
To  Winnepurkit's  sea-cooled  wigwam  went : 
"Eagle  of  Saugus, — in  the  woods  the  dove 
Mourns  for  the  shelter  of  thy  wings  of  love." 

j  But  the  dark  chief  of  Saugus  turned  aside 
j  In  the  grim  anger  of  hard-hearted  pride  ; 
|  "  I  bore  her  as  became  a  chieftain's  daughter, 
|  Up  to  her  home  beside  the  gliding  water. 
j 

"  If  now  no  more  a  mat  for  her  is  found 
Of  all  which  line  her  father's  wigwam  round, 
|  Let  Pennacook  call  out  his  warrior  train, 
|  And  send  her  back  with  wampum  gifts  again." 

The  baffled  runner  turned  upon  his  track, 
I  Bearing  the  words  of  Winnepurkit  back. 
i  "  Dog  of  the  Marsh,"  cried  Pennacook,  uno  more 
|  Shall  child  of  mine  sit  on  his  wigwam  floor. 

u  Go, — let  him  seek  some  meaner  squaw  to  spread 
i  The  stolen  bear-skin  of  his  beggar's  bed  : 
|  Son  of  a  fish -hawk  ! — let  him  dig  his  clams 
i  For  some  vile  daughter  of"  the  Agawams, 

I  u  Or  coward  Nipmucks  ! — may  his  scalp  dry  black 
j  In  Mohawk  smoke,  before  I  send  her  back." 
He  shook  his  clenched  hand  towards  the  ocean 

wave, 
j  While  hoarse  assent  his  listening  council  gave. 

i  Alas  poor  bride  ! — can  thy  grim  sire  impart 
i  His  iron  hardness  to  thy  woman's  heart  ? 
!  Or  cold  self-torturing  pride  like  his  atone 
!  For  love  denied  and  life's  warm  beauty  flown  ? 

On  Autumn's  gray  and  mournful  grave  the  snow 
Hung  its  white  wreaths  ;  with  stifled  voice  and 

low 

The  river  crept,  by  one  vast  bridge  o'er-crossed, 
Built  by  the  hoar-locked  artisan  of  Frost. 

And  many  a  Moon  in  beauty  newly  born 
Pierced  the  red  sunset  with  her  silver  horn, 


THE  MERRIMACK. 


Or,  from  the  east,  across  her  azure  field  i  Had  left  her  mother's  grave,  her  father's  door, 

Rolled  the  wide  brightness  of  her  full-orbed  shield,  i  To  seek  the  wigwam  of  her  chief  once  more. 


Yet  Winnepurkit  came  not, — on  the  mat 
Of  the  scorned  wife  her  dusky  rival  sat ; 
And  he,  the  while,  in  Western  woods  afar, 
Urged  the  long  chase,  or  trod  the  path  of  war. 

Dry  up  thy  tears,  young  daughter  of  a  chief  ! 
Waste  not  on  him  the  sacredness  of  grief  ; 
Be  the  fierce  spirit  of  thy  sire  thine  own, 
His  lips  of  scorning,  and  his  heart  of  stone. 

What  heeds  the  warrior  of  a  hundred  fights, 
The  storm-worn  watcher  through  long  hunting 

nights, 

Cold,  crafty,  proud  of  woman's  weak  distress, 
Her  home-bound  grief  and  pining  loneliness  ? 


VII.    THE  DEPARTURE. 

THE  wild  March  rains  had  fallen  fast  and  long 
The  snowy  mountains  of  the  North  among, 
Making  each  vale  a  watercourse, — each  hill 
Bright  with  the  cascade  of  some  new-made  rill. 

Gnawed  by  the  sunbeams,  softened  by  the  rain, 
Heaved    underneath    by  the    swollen    current's 

strain, 

The  ice-bridge  yielded,  and  the  Merrimack 
Bore  the  huge  ruin  crashing  down  its  track. 

On  that  strong  txirbid  water,  a  small  boat 
Guided  by  one  weak  hand  was  seen  to  float ; 
Evil  the  fate  which  loosed  it  from  the  shore, 
Too  early  voyager  with  too  frail  an  oar  ! 

Down  the  vexed  centre  of  that  rushing  tide, 
The  thick  huge  ice-blocks  threatening  either  side, 
The  foam-white  rocks  of  Amoskeag  in  view, 
With  arrowy  swiftness  sped  that  light  canoe. 

The  trapper,  moistening  his  moose's  meat 

On  the  wet  bank  by  Uncanoonuc's  feet, 

Saw  the  swift  boat  flash    down    the    troubled 

stream — 
Slept  he,  or  waked  he  ? — was  it  truth  or  dream  ? 

The  straining  eye  bent  fearfully  before, 
The  small  hand  clenching  on  the  useless  oar, 
The    bead-wrought    blanket    trailing    o'er    the 

water — 

He  knew  them  all — woe  for  the  Sachem's  daugh 
ter! 

Sick  and  aweary  of  her  lonely  life, 
Heedless  of  peril  the  still  faithful  wife 


Down  the  white  rapids  like  a  sear  leaf  whirled, 
On  the  sharp  rocks  and  piled-up  ices  hurled, 
Empty  and  broken,  circled  the  canoe 
In  the  vexed  pool  below — but,  where  was  Weeta- 


VIII.    SONG  OF  INDIAN  WOMEN. 

THE  Dark  eye  has  left  us, 

The  Spring-bird  has  flown  ; 
On  the  pathway  of  spirits 

She  wanders  alone. 
The  song  of    the  wood-dove  has   died  on  our 

shore, — 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  !  25_\vTe  hear  it  no  more ! 

O  dark  water  Spirit ! 

We  cast  on  thy  wave 
These  f  urs  which  may  never 

Hang  over  her  grave ; 
Bear  down  to  the  lost  one  the  robes  that  she 

wore, — 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  f — We  see  her  no  more  ! 

Of  the  strange  land  she  walks  in 

No  Powah  has  told  : 
It  may  burn  with  the  sunshine, 

Or  freeze  with  the  cold. 

Let  us  give  to  our  lost  one  the  robes  that  she  wore, 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  f — We  see  her  no  more  ! 

The  path  she  is  treading 
Shall  soon  be  our  own  ; 
Each  gliding  in  shadow 
Unseen  and  alone  ! — 

In  vain  shall  we  call  on  the  souls  gone  before, — 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee ! — They  hear    us    no 
more ! 

O  mighty  Sowanna  !  26 
Thy  gateways  unfold, 
From  thy  wigwam  of  sunset 

Lift  curtains  of  gold  ! 

Take  home  the  poor  Spirit  whose  journey  is  o'er, — 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  ! — We  see  her  no  more  1 

So  sang  the  Children  of  the  Leaves  beside 
The  broad,  dark  river's  coldly  flowing  tide, 
Now  low,  now  harsh,  with  sob-like  pause  and 

swell, 

On  the  high  wind  their  voices  rose  and  fell. 
Nature's  wild  music, — sounds  of  wind-swept  trees, 
The  scream  of  birds,  the  wailing  of  the  breeze, 
The  roar  of  waters,  steady,  deep,  and  strong, — 
Mingled  and  murmured  in  that  farewell  song. 


LEGENDARY. 

1846. 


THE  MERRIMACK, 

["  The  Indians  speak  of  a  beautiful  river,  far  to  the 
south,  which  they  call  Merrimack." — SIEUR  DE  MONTS  : 
1604.] 

STREAM  of  my  fathers  !  sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill ; 
Poured  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 
Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them  smile. 
I  see  the  winding  Powow  fold 


The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 
And  following  down  its  wavy  line, 
Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 
There's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 
Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 
As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  water-mark  ; 
No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy  broad,  smooth  current ;  not  a  sail 


THE  MERRIMACK.— THE  NORSEMEN. 


27 


Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale  ; 

No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 

Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores ; 

Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 

Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 

But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 

Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 

Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 

Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 

And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining  sand, 

And  yonder  island's  wave-smoothed  strand, 

Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail, 

Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale  ;  " 

And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 

The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts  of  oak, 

As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 

Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 

Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood, 

The  Merrimack  rolled  down  his  flood  ; 

Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brook, 

Which  channels  vast  Agioochook 

When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower  unlock 

The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 

And  more  abundant  waters  given 

From  that  pure  lake,  "  The  Smile  of  Heaven,' 

Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain-side, — 

With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide  ! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood, 
The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  batble-flag  ; 
And,  while  from  put  its  heavy  fold 
Saint  George's  crimson  cross  unrolled, 
Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet  blare, 
And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story  ; 29 
Of  her,  the  flower  of  Islam's  daughters, 
Whose  harems  look  on  Stamboul's  waters, — 
Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had  bound 
The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron  chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of  pain, 
And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look  ! — the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant  shore  ; 
And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  twilight  voice  of  distant  bells. 
From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin, 
The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in ; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim, 
\Vhile  yonder  lonely  coast-light,  set 
Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 
Half  quenched,  a  beamless  star  and  pale, 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 

Home  of  my  fathers  ! — I  have  stood 
Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly  flood  : 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade  ; 
Looked  down  the  Apalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak  ; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream ; 
The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 
Through  broad  Potomac's  hem  of  pine  ; 
And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna ; 
Yet  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to  thee ! 
Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore  ; 


And  saw,  amidst  the  curtained  gloom 
And  quiet  of  his  lonely  room, 
Thy  sunset  scenes  before  him  pass ; 
As,  in  Agrippa's  magic  glass, 
The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remembered  groves  in  greenness  grew, 
Bathed  still  in  childhood's  morning  dew, 
Along  whose  bowers  of  beauty  swept 
Whatever  Memory's  mourners  wept, 
Sweet  faces,  which  the  charnel  kept, 
Young,  gentle  eyes,  which  long  had  slept ; 
And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  dear  familiar  face, 
Hewep  t  to  find  the  vision  flown, — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone  ! 


THE  NORSEMEN.30 

GIFT  from  the  cold  and  silent  Past ! 

A  relic  to  the  present  cast ; 

Left  on  the  ever-changing  strand 

Of  shifting  and  unstable  sand, 

Which  wastes  beneath  the  steady  chime 

And  beating  of  the  waves  of  Time  ! 

Who  from  its  bed  of  primal  rock 

First  wrenched  thy  dark,  unshapely  block  ? 

Whose  hand,  of  curious  skill  untaught, 

Thy  rude  and  savage  outline  wrought  ? 

The  waters  of  my  native  stream 

Are  glancing  in  the  sun's  warm  beam  : 

From  sail-urged  keel  and  flashing  oar 

The  circles  widen  to  its  shore : 

And  cultured  field  and  peopled  town 

Slope  to  its  willowed  margin  down. 

Yet,  while  this  morning  breeze  is  bringing 

The  home-life  sound  of  school-bells  ringing, 

And  rolling  wheel,  and  rapid  jar 

Of  the  fire-winged  and  steedless  car, 

And  voices  from  the  wayside  near 

Come  quick  and  blended  on  my  ear, 

A  spell  is  in  this  old  gray  stone, — 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Past  alone  ! 

A  change  ! — The  steepled  town  no  more 

Stretches  along  the  sail-thronged  shore  : 

Like  palace-domes  in  sunset's  cloud, 

Fade  sun-gilt  spire  and  mansion  proud : 

Spectrally  rising  where  they  stood, 

I  see  the  old,  primeval  wood  : 

Dark,  shadow-like,  on  either  hand 

I  see  its  solemn  waste  expand : 

It  climbs  the  green  and  cultured  hill, 

It  arches  o'er  the  valley's  rill ; 

And  leans  from  cliff  and  crag,  to  throw 

Its  wild  arms  o'er  the  stream  below. 

Unchanged,  alone,  the  same  bright  river 

Flows  on,  as  it  will  flow  forever ! 

I  listen,  and  I  hear  .the  low 

Soft  ripple  where  its  waters  go  ; 

I  hear  behind  the  panther's  cry, 

The  wild-bird's  scream  goes  thrilling  by, 

And  shyly  on  the  river's  brink 

The  deer  is  stooping  down  to  drink. 

But  hark  ! — from  wood  and  rock  flung  back, 
|  What  sound  comes  up  the  Merrimack  ? 
What  sea-worn  barks  are  those  which  throw 
The  light  spray  from  each  rushing  prow  ? 
Have  they  not  in  the  North  Sea's  blast 
Bowed  to  the  waves  the  straining  mast  ? 
Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale  sun 
Of  Thule's  night  has  shone  upon  ; 
Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drift,  and  headland  steep. 
Wild  Jutland's  wives  and  Lochlin's  daughters 
Have  watchel  them  fading  o'er  the  waters, 
Lessening  through  driving  mist  and  spray, 
Like  white-winged  sea-birds  on  their  way  ! 


THE  NORSEMEN.— CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 


Cultured  field  and  peopled  town.1 


Onward  they  glide, — and  now  I  view 
Their  iron-armed  and  stalwart  crew ; 
Joy  glistens  in  each  wild  blue  eye, 
Turned  to  green  earth  and  summer  sky  : 
Each  broad,  seamed  breast  has  cast  aside 
Its  cumbering  vest  of  shaggy  hide ; 
Bared  to  the  sun  and  soft  warm  air, 
Streams  back  the  Norsemen's  yellow  hair. 
I  see  the  gleam  of  axe  and  spear, 
The  sound  of  smitten  shields  I  hear, 
Keeping  a  harsh  and  fitting  time 
To  Saga's  chant,  and  Runic  rhyme  ; 
Such  lays  as  Zetland's  Scald  has  sung, 
His  gray  and  naked  isles  among  ; 
Or  muttered  low  at  midnight  hour 
Round  Odin's  mossy  stone  of  power. 
The  wolf  beneath  the  Arctic  moon 
Has  answered  to  that  startling  rune  ; 
The  Gael  has  heard  its  stormy  swell, 
Tha  light  Frank  knows  its  summons  well ; 
lona's  sable-stobd  Culdee 
Has  heard  it  sounding  o'er  the  sea, 
And  swept,  with  hoary  beard  and  hair, 
His  altar's  foot  in  trembling  prayer  ! 

'T  is  past, — the  'wildering  vision  dies 

In  darkness  on  my  dreaming  eyes  ! 

The  forest  vanishes  in  air, — 

Hill-slope  and  vale  lie  starkly  bare  ; 

I  hear  the  common  tread  of  men, 

And  hum  of  work-day  life  again  : 

Ths  mystic  relic  seems  alone 

A  broken  mass  of  common  stone  ; 

And  if  it  be  the  chiselled  limb 

Of  Berserker  or  idol  grim, — 

A  fragment  of  Valhalla's  Thor, 

The  stormy  Viking's  god  of  War, 

Or  Praga  of  tho  Runic  lay, 

Or  love-awakening  Siona, 

I  know  not, — for  no  graven  line, 


Nor  Druid  mark,  nor  Runic  sign, 

Is  left  me  here,  by  which  to  trace 

Its  name,  or  origin,  or  place. 

Yet,  for  this  vision  of  the  Past, 

This  glance  upon  its  darkness  cast, 

My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 

Before  the  Giver  of  all  good, 

Who  fashioned  so  the  human  mind, 

That,  from  the  waste  of  Time  behind 

A  simple  stone,  or  mound  of  earth, 

Can  summon  the  departed  forth  ; 

Quicken  the  Past  to  life  again, — 

The  Present  lose  in  what  hath  been, 

And  in  their  primal  freshness  show 

The  buried  forms  of  long  ago. 

As  if  a  portion  of  that  Thought 

By  which  the  Eternal  will  is  wrought, 

Whose  impulse  fills  anew  with  breath 

The  frozen  solitude  of  Death, 

To  mortal  mind  were  sometimes  lent, 

To  mortal  musings  sometimes  sent, 

To  whisper — even  when  it  seems 

But  Memory's  fantasy  of  dreams — 

Through  the  mind's  waste  of  woe  and  sin,. 

Of  an  immortal  origin  ! 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 

1658. 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing 
rise  to-day, 

From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  He  hath  plucked 
the  spoil  away, — 

Yea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the  faith 
ful  three, 

And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  his  hand 
maid  free  ! 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 


Last   night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my 

prison  bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell  the  pale 

gleam  of  stars ; 
In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through  the 

long  night-time, 
My  grated  casement  whitened  with  autumn's  early 

rime. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour  crept 

by; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank  adown 

the  sky ; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that  which 

seemed  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of  the 


All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on  the 

morrow 
The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me  in 

my  sorrow, 
Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bargained 

for  and  sold, 
Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a  heifer 

from  the  fold  ! 

O,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there,— the 

shrinking  and  the  shame  ; 
And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like  whispers 

to  me  came : 
"Why  sit'st  thou  thus  forlornly!"  the  wicked 

murmur  said, 
"  Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth  thy 

maiden  bed  ? 

"Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices  soft  and 
sweet, 

Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in  the  pleas 
ant  street? 

Where  be  the  youths  whose  glances,  the  summer 
Sabbath  through, 

Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father's 
pew? 

"Why   sit'st    thou  here,   Cassandra? — Bethink 

thee  with  what  mirth 
Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the  warm 

bright  hearth  ; 
How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble  on  foreheads 

white  and  fair, 
On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in  golden 

hair. 

"Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens,  not  for 
thee  kind  words  are  spoken, 

Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by  laugh 
ing  boys  are  broken, 

No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy  lap  are 
laid, 

For  thee  no  flowers  of  autumn  the  youthful  hunt 
ers  braid. 

"  O,  weak,  deluded  maiden ! — by  crazy  fancies 

led. 
With  wild  and   raving   railers  an  evil  path  to 

tread ; 
To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching  pure 

and  sound ; 
And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-haired  and 

sackcloth  bound. 

"Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock  at 

things  divine, 
Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread  and 

wine; 
Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from  the 

pillory  lame, 
Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorying  in 

their  shame. 


"And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee? — a  sadly  toiling 
slave, 

Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of  bond 
age  to  the  grave ! 

Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in  hope 
less  thrall, 

The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of  all !  " 

O,  ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble  Nature's 
fears 

Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of  unavail 
ing  tears0 

I  wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and  strove  in 
silent  prayer, 

To  feel,  O  Helper  of  the  weak  !  that  Thou  indeed 
wert  there  ! 

I  thought  of  Paul  and  Silas,  within  Philippi's  cell, 

And  how  from  Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the  prison- 
shackles  fell, 

Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an  angel's 
robe  of  white, 

And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to  sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies  ! — for  the  peace 

and  love  I  felt, 
Like   dew  of  Hermon's  holy  hill,  upon  my  spirit 

melt; 
When  "  Get  behind  me,  Satan !  "  was  the  language 

of  my  heart, 
And  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his  doubts 

depart. 

Slow   broke  the  gray  cold  morning ;  again  the 

sunshine  fell, 
Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate  within 

my  lonely  cell ; 
The  hoar-frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  upward 

from  the  street 
Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and  tread  of 

passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door  was 

open  cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriffs  side,  up  the  long  street 

I  passed; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,   and  felt,  but 

dared  not  see,    ' 
How,  from  every  door  and  window,  the  people 

gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt   and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame  burned 

upon  my  cheek, 
Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trembling 

limbs  grew  weak : 
"  O  Lord  !  support  thy  handmaid  ;  and  from  her 

soul  cast  out 
The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare, — the 

weakness  and  the  doubt." 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered,  like  a  cloud 
in  morning's  breeze, 

And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seemed  whisper 
ing  words  like  these : 

"  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy  heaven 
a  brazen  wall, 

Trust  still  His  loving-kindness  whose  power  is 
over  all." 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the  sunlit 

waters  broke 
On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly 

wall  of  rock  ; 
The  merchant-ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard  clear 

lines  on  high, 
Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their  network 

on  the  sky. 


30 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 


And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak-wrapped 

and  grave  and  cold, 
And  grira    and    stout   sea-captains  with   faces 

bronzed  and  old, 
And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel  clerk  at 

hand, 
Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler  of  the 

land. 

And    poisoning  with  his  evil  words  the  ruler's 

ready  ear, 
The  priest  leaned  o'er  his  saddle,  with  laugh  and 

scoff  and  jeer ; 
It  stirred  my  soul,   and  from  my  lips  the  seal  of 

silence  broke, 
As  if  through  woman's  weakness  a  warning  spirit 

spoke. 

I  cried,  "The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  smiter  of 

the  meek ! 
Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler  of 

the  weak  ! 
Go  light  the  dark,  cold  hearth-stones, — go  turn 

the  prison  lock 
Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou  wolf 

amid  the  flock  !  " 

Dark  lowered  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and  with  a 

deeper  red 
O'er  Rawson' s  wine-empurpled  cheek  the  flush  of 

anger  spread ; 
uGood   people,"  quofch  the  white-lipped  priest, 

"  heed  not  her  words  so  wild, 
Her  Master  speaks  within  her, — the  Devil  owns 

his  child !  " 

But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit,  the 
while  the  sheriff  read 

That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor  have 
made, 

Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priest 
hood  bring 

No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offering. 

Then  to  the  stout  sea-captains  the  sheriff,  turn 
ing,  said, — 

"Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take  this 
Quaker  maid  ? 

In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia's 
shore, 

You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than  Indian 
girl  or  Moor." 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains ;    and  when 

again  he  cried, 
"Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen  !  " — no  voice,  no 

sign  replied  ; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and  kind 

words  met  my  ear, — 
"God  bless  thee,  and  preserve  thee,  my  gentle 

girl  and  dear  !  " 

A  weight  seemed  lifted  from  my  heart,  — a  pity 
ing  friend  was  nigh, 

I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it  in  his 
eye; 

And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that  voice,  so 
kind  to  me, 

Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roaring 
of  the  sea, — 

"Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver, — pack  with 

coins  of  Spanish  gold, 
From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  roomage 

of  her  hold, 
By  the  living  God  who  made  me  ! — I  would  sooner 

in  your  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear  this  child 

away !  " 


"Well  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame  on  their 
cruel  laws !  " 

Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud  the  peo 
ple's  just  applause. 

"  Like  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of  old, 

Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for 
silver  sold  ?  " 

I  looked  on  haughty  Endicott ;  with  weapon  half 
way  drawn, 

Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter 
hate  and  scorn ; 

Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle-rein,  and  turned  in 
silence  back, 

And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode  mur 
muring  in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bitterness 

of  soul ; 
Thrice   smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,    and 

crushed  his  parchment  roll. 
"  Good  friends,"  he  said,  "  since  both  have  fled, 

the  ruler  and  the  priest, 
Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I  be  not 

well  released." 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear,  swept 

round  the  silent  bay, 
As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he  bade  me 

go  my  way ; 
For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  streamlet  of 

the  glen, 
And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned  the 

hearts  of  men. 

O,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seemed  changed 

beneath  my  eye, 
A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls  of 

the  sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill  and  stream  and 

woodland  lay, 
And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  waters  of 

the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life  !— to  Him  all 

praises  be, 
Who   from  the    hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  his 

handmaid  free ; 
All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the  mighty 

are  afraid, 
Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare  which  for  the 

poor  is  laid  ! 

Sing,  O  my  soul,  rejoicingly,  on  evening's  twilight 

calm 
Uplift  the   loud   thanksgiving, — pour   forth  the 

grateful  psalm  ; 
Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  did  the 

saints  of  old, 
When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued  Peter 

told. 

And  weep  and  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and  mighty 

men  of  wrong, 
The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud,  and  lay  his  hand 

upon  the  strong. 

Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  his  avenging  hour  ! 
Woe  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to  raven 

and  devour  ! 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise,— the  poor  in  heart 

be  glad, 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes  of 

praise  be  clad, 
For  He  who  cooled  the  furnace,  and  smoothed  the 

stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty  still  to 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS. —ST.  JOHN. 


31 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS. 

1756. 

AROUND  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 

The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks  o'er, 

Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

The  sun  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 

Dazzling  and  white  !  save  where  the  bleak, 
Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splintering  peak, 
Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of  snow. 

The  earth  hath  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 
Though  yet  on  her  deliverer's  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 

Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow-brooks, 
And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air. 

But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 
What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside  their  slaughtered  chief,  of  this  ? 

The  turf's  red  stain  is  yet  undried, — 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes  died 
Along  Sebago's  wooded  side  : 

And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  where  a  swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward  from  the  lake's  white  sand. 

Fire  and  the  axe  have  swept  it  bare, 
Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal  air. 

With  grave,  cold  looks,  all  sternly  mute, 
They  break  the  damp  turf  at  its  foot, 
And  bare  its  coiled  and  twisted  root. 

They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 
The  firm  roots  from  the  earth  divide, — 
The  rent  beneath  yawns  dark  and  wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tasselled  garbs  of  skins  arrayed, 
And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid. 

The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarred  and  naked  breast. 

'T  is  done  :  the  roots  are  backward  sent, 
The  beechen-tree  stands  up  unbent, — 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument ! 

When  of  that  sleeper's  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant  dwelling-place 
Which  knew  them  once,  retains  no  trace  ; 


O,  long  may  sunset's  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech's  head, — 
A  green  memorial  of  the  dead  ! 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be, 

In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and  free, 

Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 

To  their  wild  wail  the  waves  which  break 
Forever  round  that  lonely  lake 
A  solemn  undertone  shall  make  ! 

And  who  shall  deem  the  spot  unblest, 
Where  Nature's  younger  children  rest, 
Lulled  on  their  sorrowing  mother's  breast 

Deem  ye  that  mother  loveth  less 
These  bronzed  forms  of  the  wilderness 
She  f oldeth  in  her  long  caress  ? 

As  sweet  o'er  them  her  wild-flowers  blow 
As  if  with  fairer  hair  and  brow 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  slept  below. 

What  though  the  places  of  their  rest 
No  priestly  knee  hath  ever  pressed, — 
No  funeral  rite  nor  prayer  hath  blessed  ?! 

What  though  the  bigot's  ban  be  there, 
And  thoughts  of  wailing  and  despair, 
And  cursing  in  the  place  of  prayer  ! 

Yet  Heaven  hath  angels  watching  round 
The  Indian's  lowliest  forest-mound, — 
And  they  have  made  it  holy  ground. 

There  ceases  man's  frail  judgment ;  all 
His  powerless  bolts  of  cursing  fall 
Unheeded  on  that  grassy  pall. 

O,  peeled,  and  hunted,  and  reviled,. 
Sleep  on,  dark  tenant  of  the  wild  ! 
Great  Nature  owns  her  simple  child  ! 

And  Nature's  God,  to  whom  alone 
The  secret  of  the  heart  is  known, — 
The  hidden  language  traced  thereon  ; 

Who  from  its  many  cumberings 

Of  form  and  creed,  and  outward  things,,, 

To  light  the  naked  spirit  brings  ; 

Not  with  our  partial  eye  shall  scan, 
Not  with  our  pride  and  scorn  shall  ban,, 
The  spirit  of  our  brother  man  ! 


ST.  JOHN. 

1647. 

u  To  the  winds  give  our  banner ! 

Bear  homeward  again  !  " 
Cried  the  Lord  of  Acadia, 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  ; 
From  the  prow  of  his  shallop 

He  gazed,  as  the  sun, 
From  its  bed  in  the  ocean, 

Streamed  up  the  St.  John. 

O'er  the  blue  western  waters 

That  shallop  had  passed, 
Where  the  mists  of  Penobscot 

Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 
St.  Saviour  had  looked 

On  the  heretic  sail, 
As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 

Rose  on  the  gale. 


ST.  JOHN.-PENTUCKET. 


The  pale,  ghostly  fathers 

Remembered  her  well, 
And  had  cursed  her  while  passing, 

With  taper  and  bell, 
But  the  men  of  Monhegan, 

Of  Papists  abhorred, 
Had  welcomed  and  feasted 

The  heretic  Lord. 

They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemequid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 

Had  followed  his  way, 
As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 
O,  well  sped  La  Tour  ! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 
His  lady  kept  watch, 

For  his  coming  again. 

O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun  shone, 
On  the  plane-trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 
"Now,  why  from  yon  battlements 

Speaks  not  my  love  ! 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 

My  fortress  above  V^" 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 

St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 
On  fire-wasted  dwellings, 

And  silent  redoubt ; 
From  the  low,  shattered  walls 

Which  the  flame  had  o'errun, 
There  floated  no  banner, 

There  thundered  no  gun ! 

But  beneath  the  low  arch 

Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A  pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 
With  the  bound  of  a  lion, 

La  Tour  sprang  to  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

He  fastened  his  hand. 

"  Speak,  son  of  the  Woman 

Of  scarlet  and  sin  ! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 

My  castle  within  V  " 
From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The  Jesuit  broke, 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke  : 

"No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 

Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But  thy  red-handed  rival, 

With  fire,  steel,  and  ball ! 
On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I  hitherward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet  spouted  with  flame. 

"  Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 

Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
"  But  what  of  my  lady  ?  " 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  : 
u  On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen  : 


"  Half -veiled  in  the  smoke-cloud, 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon  ! 
But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  woe  ! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe  ! 

"In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
Pentagoet  swept  over 

The  breach  of  the  wall ! 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment, — and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  iffith  his  men  ! 

"  Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 
Saw  the  cross-blazoned  banner 

Float  over  St.  John. " 
"  Let  the  dastard  look  to  it  !  " 

Cried  fiery  Estienne, 
u  Were  D'Aulney  King  Louis, 

I  'd  free  her  again  !  " 

"  Alas  for  thy  lady  ! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free  : 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 
But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  door  !  " 

As  if  suddenly  smitten 

La  Tour  staggered  back ; 
His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 

His  forehead  grew  black. 
He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again. 
"We  cruise  now  for  vengeance  ! 

Give  way  !  "  cried  Estienne. 

"Massachusetts  shall  hear 

Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong, 
And  from  island  and  creekside 

Her  fishers  shall  throng  ! 
Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done, 
When  his  palisades  echo 

The  Puritan's  gun  !  " 

O,  the  loveliest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him, 
There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 

And  green  isles  before  him  : 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on ; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John  ! 


PENTUCKET. 

1708. 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone  ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar  .' 


PENTUCKET.— THE  FAMILIST'S  HYMN. 


33 


Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-walled  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretched  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blackened  stumps  between. 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravelled  forest  spread. 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm,  without  a  fear 

Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 

The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough,  —  . 

The  milkmaid  carolled  by  her  cow, — 

From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 

Rose  songs  of  praise,  or  tones  of  mirth. 

At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 

And  silence  on  that  village  lay, — 

So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 

Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallowed  all, 

Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 

Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate  ! 

Hours  passed  away.     By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimack  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hushed  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound, — 
No  bark  of  fox,  nor  rabbit's  bound, 
Nor  stir  of  wings,  nor  waters  flowing, 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 
Which  downward  from  the  hillside  beat  ? 
What  forms  were  those  which  darkly  stood 
Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood  ? — 
Charred  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 
Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb  ? 
No, — through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs  glowed, 
Dark  human  forms  in  moonshine  showed, 
Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 
With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress  ! 

A  yell  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear 
Swelled  on  the  night  air,  far  and  clear,— 
Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock, — 
Then  rang  the  rifle-shot, — and  then 
The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men, — 
Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain, — 
Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 
Red,  fast,  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame  ; 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
On  still  dead  men  and  weapons  bared. 

The  morning  sun  looked  brightly  through 
The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  filled  the  air, — 
No  shout  was  heard, — nor  gunshot  there : 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke  ; 
And  on  the  greensward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain, 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head  ! 

Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearthstone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak, 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke, 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and  bare, — 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  feared, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard, — 


And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


THE  FAMILIST'S  HYMN. 

FATHER  !  to  thy  suffering  poor 

Strength  and  grace  and  faith  impart, 
And  with  thy  own  love  restore 

Comfort  to  the  broken  heart ! 
O,  the  failing  ones  confirm 

With  a  holier  strength  of  zeal ! — 
Give  thou  not  the  feeble  worm 

Helpless  to  the  spoiler's  heel ! 

Father  !  for  thy  holy  sake 

We  are  spoiled  and  hunted  thus  ; 
Joyful,  for  thy  truth  we  take 

Bonds  and  burthens  unto  us  : 
Poor,  and  weak,  and  robbed  of  all, 

Weary  with  our  daily  task, 
That  thy  truth  may  never  fall 

Through  our  weakness,  Lord,  we  ask. 

Round  our  fired  and  wasted  homes 

Flits  the  forest-bird  unscared, 
And  at  noon  the  wild  beast  comes 

Where  our  frugal  meal  was  shared  ; 
For  the  song  of  praises  there 

Shrieks  the  crow  the  livelong  day; 
For  the  sound  of  evening  prayer 

Howls  the  evil  beast  of  prey  ! 

Sweet  the  songs  we  loved  to  sing 

Underneath  thy  holy  sky, — 
Words  and  tones  that  used  to  bring 

Tears  of  joy  in  every  eye, — 
Dear  the  wrestling  hours  of  prayer, 

When  we  gathered  knee  to  knee, 
Blameless  youth  and  hoary  hair, 

Bowed,  O  God,  alone  to  thee. 

As  thine  early  children,  Lord, 

Shared  their  wealth  and  daily  bread",, 
Even  so,  with  one  accord, 

We,  in  love,  each  other  fed. 
Not  with  us  the  miser's  hoard, 

Not  with  us  his  grasping  hand  ; 
Equal  round  a  common  board, 

Drew  our  meek  and  brother  band  ! 

Safe  our  quiet  Eden  lay 

When  the  war-whoop  stirred  the  land 
And  the  Indian  turned  away 

From  our  home  his  bloody  hand. 
Well  that  forest-ranger  saw, 

That  the  burthen  and  the  curse 
Of  the  white  man's  cruel  law 

Rested  also  upon  us. 

Torn  apart,  and  driven  forth 

To  our  toiling  hard  and  long, 
Father  !  from  the  dust  of  earth 

Lift  we  still  our  grateful  song  ! 
Grateful, — that  in  bonds  we  share 

In  thy  love  which  maketh  free  ; 
Joyful, — that  the  wrongs  we  bear, 

Draw  us  nearer,  Lord,  to  thee  ! 

Grateful ! — that  where'er  we  toil, — 

By  Wachuset's  wooded  side, 
On  Nantucket's  sea-worn  isle, 

Or  by  wild  Neponset's  tide, — 
Still,  in  spirit,  we  are  near, 

And  our  evening  hymns,  which  rise 
Separate  and  discordant  here, 

Meet  and  mingle  in  the  skies  ! 


34 


THE  FAMILIST'S  HYMN.— THE  FOUNTAIN. 


Let  the  scoffer  scorn  and  mock, 

Let  the  proud  and  evil  priest 
Rob  the  needy  of  his  flock, 

For  his  wine-cup  and  his  feast, — 
Redden  not  thy  bolts  in  store 

Through  the  blackness  of  thy  skies  ? 
For  the  sighing  of  the  poor 

Wilt  Thou  not,  at  length,  arise  ? 

Worn  and  wasted,  oh  !  how  long 

Shall  thy  trodden  poor  complain  ? 
In  thy  name  they  bear  the  wrong, 

In  thy  cause  the  bonds  of  pain  ! 
Melt  oppression's  heart  of  steel, 

Let  the  haughty  priesthood  see, 
And  their  blinded  followers  feel, 

That  in  us  they  mock  at  Thee  ! 

In  thy  time,  O  Lord  of  hosts, 

Stretch  abroad  that  hand  to  save 
Which  of  old,  on  Egypt's  coasts, 

Smote  apart  the  Red  Sea's  wave  ! 
Lead  us  from  this  evil  land, 

From  the  spoiler  set  us  free, 
And  once  more  our  gathered  band, 

Heart  to  heart,  shall  worship  thee ! 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

TRAVELLER  !  on  thy  journey  toiling 

By  the  swift  Powow,   . 
With  the  summer  sunshine  falling 

On  thy  heated  brow, 
Listen,  while  all  else  is  still, 
To  the  brooklet  from  the  hill. 

Wild  and  sweet  the  flowers  are  blowing 

By  that  streamlet's  side, 
And  a  greener  verdure  showing 

Where  its  waters  glide, — 
Down  the  hill-slope  murmuring  on, 
Over  root  aud  mossy  stone. 

Where  yon  oak  his  broad  arms  flingeth 

O'er  the  sloping  hill, 
Beautiful  and  freshly  springeth 

That  soft-flowing  rill, 
Through  its  dark  roots  wreathed  and  bare, 
Gushing  up  to  sun  and  air. 

Brighter  waters  sparkled  never 

In  that  magic  well, 
Of  whose  gift  of  life  forever 

Ancient  legends  tell, — 
In  the  lonely  desert  wasted, 
And  by  mortal  lip  untasted. 

Waters  which  the  proud  Castilian  31 

Sought  with  longing  eyes, 
Underneath  the  bright  pavilion 

Of  the  Indian  skies  ; 
Where  his  forest  pathway  lay 
Through  the  blooms  of  Florida. 

Years  ago  a  lonely  stranger, 

With  the  dusky  brow 
Of  the  outcast  forest-ranger, 

Crossed  the  swift  Powow  ; 
And  betook  him  to  the  rill 
And  the  oak  upon  the  hill. 

O'er  his  face  of  moody  sadness 

For  an  instant  shone 
Something  like  a  gleam  of  gladness, 

As  he  stooped  him  down 
To  the  fountain's  grassy  side, 
And  his  eager  thirst  supplied. 


With  the  oak  its  shadow  throwing 

O'er  his  mossy  seat, 
And  the  cool,  sweet  waters  flowing 

Softly  at  his  feet. 
Closely  by  the  fountain's  rim 
That  lone  Indian  seated  him. 

Autumn's  earliest  frost  had  given 

To  the  woods  below 
Hues  of  beauty,  such  as  heaven 

Lendeth  to  its' bow  ; 
And  the  soft  breeze  from  the  west 
Scarcely  broke  their  dreamy  rest. 

Far  behind  was  Ocean  striving 

With  his  chains  of  sand  ; 
Southward,  sunny  glimpses  giving, 

'Twixt  the  swells  of  land, 
Of  its  calm  and  silvery  track, 
Rolled  the  tranquil  Merrimack. 

Over  village,  wood,  and  meadow 

Gazed  that  stranger  man, 
Sadly,  till  the  twilight  shadow 

Over  all  things  ran, 
Save  where  spire  and  westward  pane 
Flashed  the  sunset  back  again. 

Gazing  thus  upon  the  dwelling 

Of  his  warrior  sires, 
Where  no  lingering  trace  was  telling 

Of  their  wigwam  fires, 
Who  the  gloomy  thoughts  might  know 
Of  that  wandering  child  of  woe  V 

Naked  lay,  in  sunshine  glowing, 

Hills  that  once  had  stood 
Down  their  sides  the  shadows  throwing 

Of  a  mighty  wood, 
Where  the  deer  his  covert  kept, 
And  the  eagle's  pinion  swept ! 

Where  the  birch  canoe  had  glided 

Down  the  swift  Powow, 
Dark  and  gloomy  bridges  strided 

Those  clear  waters  now  ; 
And  where  once  the  beaver  swam, 
Jarred  the  wheel  and  frowned  the  dam. 

For  the  wood-bird's  merry  singing, 

And  the  hunter's  cheer, 
Iron  clang  and  hammer's  ringing 

Smote  upon  his  ear  ; 
And  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  the  blackened  forges  broke. 

Could  it  be  his  fathers  ever 

Loved  to  linger  here  ? 
These  bare  hills,  this  conquered  river, — 

Could  they  hold  them  dear, 
With  their  native  loveliness 
Tamed  and  tortured  into  this  ? 

Sadly,  as  the  shades'  of  even 

Gathered  o'er  the  hill, 
While  the  western  half  of  heaven 

Blushed  with  sunset  still, 
From  the  fountain's  mossy  seat 
Turned  the  Indian's  weary  feet. 

Year  on  year  hath  flown  forever, 

But  he  came  no  more 
To  the  hillside  or  the  river 

Where  he  came  before. 
But  the  villager  can  tell 
Of  that  strange  man's  visit  well. 

And  the  merry  children,  laden 
With  their  fruits  or  flowers, — 


THE  EXILES. 


I-J5 


Roving  boy  and  laughing  maiden, 

In  their  school-day  hours, 
Love  the  simple  tale  to  tell 
Of  the  Indian  and  his  well. 


THE  EXILES. 
1660. 

THE  goodman  sat  beside  his  door 

One  sultry  afternoon. 
With  his  young  wife  singing  at  his  side 

An  old  and  goodly  tune. 

A  glimmer  of  heat  was  in  the  air  ; 

The  dark  green  woods  were  still ; 
And  the  skirts  of  a  heavy  thunder-cloud 

Hung  over  the  western  hill. 

Black,  thick,  and  vast  arose  that  cloud 

Above  the  wilderness, 
As  some  dark  world  from  upper  air 

Were  stooping  over  this. 

At  times  the  solemn  thunder  pealed, 

And  all  was  still  again, 
Save  a  low  murmur  in  the  air 

Of  coming  wind  and  rain. 

Just  as  the  first  big  rain-drop  fell, 

A  weary  stranger  came, 
And  stood  before  the  farmer's  door, 

With  travel  soiled  and  lame. 

Sad  seemed  he,  yet  sustaining  hope 

Was  in  his  quiet  glance, 
And  peace,  like  autumn's  moonlight,  clothed 

His  tranquil  countenance. 

A  look,  like  that  his  Master  wore 

In  Pilate's  council-hall : 
It  told  of  wrongs, — but  of  a  love 

Meekly  forgiving  all. 

"  Friend  !  wilt  thou  give  me  shelter  here  ?  " 

The  stranger  meekly  said  ; 
And,  leaning  on  his  oaken  staff, 

The  goodman's  features  read. 

"My  life  is  hunted, — evil  men 

Are  following  in  my  track  ; 
The  traces  of  the  torturer's  whip 

Are  on  my  aged  back. 

"  And  much,  I  fear,  't  will  peril  thee 

Within  thy  doors  to  take 
A  hunted  seeker  of  the  Truth, 

Oppressed  for  conscience'  sake." 

O,  kindly  spoke  the  goodman's  wife, — 
u  Come  in,  old  man  !  "  quoth  she, — 

"  We  will  not  leave  thee  to  the  storm, 
Whoever  thou  mayst  be." 

Then  came  the  aged  wanderer  in, 

And  silent  sat  him  down  ; 
While  all  within  grew  dark  as  night 

Beneath  the  storm-cloud's  frown. 

But  while  the  sudden  lightning's  blaze 

Filled  every  cottage  nook, 
And  with  the  jarring  thunder-roll 

The  loosened  casements  shook, 

A  heavy  tramp  of  horses'  feet 

Came  sounding  up  the  lane, 
And  half  a  score  of  horse,  or  more, 

Came  plunging  through  the  rain. 


"Now,  Goodman  Macey,  ope  thy  door, — 
We  would  not  be  house-breakers  ; 

A  rueful  deed  thou  'st  done  this  day, 
In  harboring  banished  Quakers." 

Out  looked  the  cautious  goodman  then, 

With  much  of  fear  and  awe, 
For  there,  with  broad  wig  drenched  with 
rain, 

The  parish  priest  he  saw. 

"  Open  thy  door,  thou  wicked  man, 

And  let  thy  pastor  in, 
And  give  God  thanks,  if  forty  stripes 

Repay  thy  deadly  sin." 

"  What  seek  ye  ?  "  quoth  the  goodman,— 

"The  stranger  is  my  guest : 
He  is  worn  with  toil  and  grievous  wrong, — 

Pray  let  the  old  man  rest. " 

"Now,  out  upon  thee,  canting  knave  !  " 
And  strong  hands  shook  the  door. 

"Believe  me,  Macey,"  quoth  the  priest, — 
14 Thou  'It  rue  thy  conduct  sore." 

Then  kindled  Macey's  eye  of  fire : 
"  No  priest  who  walks  the  earth, 

Shall  pluck  away  the  stranger-guest 
Made  welcome  to  my  hearth." 

Down  from  his  cottage  wall  he  caught 

The  matchlock,  hotly  tried 
At  Preston-pans  and  Marston-moor, 

By  fiery  Ireton's  side ; 

Where  Puritan,  and  Cavalier, 

With  shout  and  psalm  contended  ; 

And  Rupert's  oath,  and  Cromwell's  prayer, 
With  battle-thunder  blended. 

Up  rose  the  ancient  stranger  then : 

"My  spirit  is  not  free 
To  bring  the  wrath  and  violence 

Of  evil  men  on  thee : 

"  And  for  thyself,  I  pray  forbear, — 

Bethink  thee  of  thy  Lord, 
Who  healed  again  the  smitten  ear, 

And  sheathed  his  follower's  sword. 

"  I  go,  as  to  the  slaughter  led : 
Friends  of  the  poor,  farewell ! " 

Beneath  his  hand'  the  oaken  door 
Back  on  its  hinges  fell. 

"Come  forth,  old  graybeard,  yea  and  nay," 

The  reckless  scoffers  cried, 
As  to  a  horseman's  saddle-bow 

The  old  man's  arms  were  tied. 

And  of  his  bondage  hard  and  long 

In  Boston's  crowded  jail, 
Where  suffering  woman's  prayer  was  heard, 

With  sickening  childhood's  wail, 

It  suits  not  with  our  tale  to  tell : 
Those  scenes  have  passed  away, — 

Let  the  dim  shadows  of  the  past 
Brood  o'er  that  evil  day. 

"  Ho,  sheriff" !  "  quoth  the  ardent  priest, — 

"  Take  Goodman  Macey  too  ; 
The  sin  of  this  day's  heresy 

His  back  or  purse  shall  rue." 

"Now,  good  wife,  haste  thee  !  "  Macey  cried, 

She  caught  his  manly  arm  : — 
Behind,  the  parson  urged  pursuit, 

With  outcry  and  alarm. 


36 


THE  EXILES.— THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD. 


Ho  !  speed  the  Maceys,  neck  or  naught, — 

The  river-course  was  near  : — 
The  plashing  on  its  pebbled  shore 

Was  music  to  their  ear. 

A  gray  rock,  tasselled  o'er  with  birch, 

Above  the  waters  hung, 
And  at  its  base,  with  every  wave, 

A  small  light  wherry  swung. 

A  leap — they  gain  the  boat— and  there 

The  goodman  wields  his  oar  : 
"111  luck  betide  them  all," — he  cried, — 

"  The  laggards  upon  the  shore." 

Down  through  the  crashing  underwood, 

The  burly  sheriff  came : — 
u  Stand,  Goodman  Macey, — yield  thyself  ; 

Yield  in  the  King's  own  name." 

"  Now  out  upon  thy  hangman's  face  !  " 

Bold  Macey  answered  then, — 
u  Whip  women,  on  the  village  green, 

But  meddle  not  with  men." 

The  priest  came  panting  to  the  shore, — 
His  grave  cocked  hat  was  gone ; 

Behind  him,  like  some  owl's  nest,  hung 
His  wig  upon  a  thorn. 

"  Come  back, — come  back !  "  the  parson  cried, 

"  The  church's  curse  beware." 
"  Curse,  an'  thou  wilt,"  said  Macey,  u  but 

Thy  blessing  prithee  spare." 

"  Vile  scoffer  !  "  cried  the  baffled  priest,— 

"  Thou  'It  yet  the  gallows  see." 
"Who's   born   to   be  hanged,  will   not    be 
drowned," 

Quoth  Macey,  merrily ; 

"  And  so,  sir  sheriff  and  priest,  good  by  !  " 

He  bent  him  to  his  oar, 
And  the  small  boat  glided  quietly 

From  the  twain  upon  the  shore. 

Now  in  the  west,  the  heavy  clouds 

Scattered  and  fell  asunder, 
While  feebler  came  the  rush  of  rain, 

And  fainter  growled  the  thunder. 

And  through  the  broken  clouds,  the  sun 

Looked  out  serene  and  warm, 
Painting  its  holy  symbol-light 

Upon  the  passing  storm. 

O,  beautiful !  that  rainbow  span, 
O'er  dim  Crane-neck  was  bended  ; — 

One  bright  foot  touched  the  eastern  hills, 
And  one  with  ocean  blended. 

By  green  Pentucket's  southern  slope 

The  small  boat  glided  fast, — 
The  watchers  of  "  the  Block-house"  saw 

The  strangers  as  they  passed. 

That  night  a  stalwart  garrison 

Sat  shaking  in  their  shoes, 
To  hear  the  dip  of  Indian  oars, — 

The  glide  of  birch  canoes. 

The  fisher-wives  of  Salisbury, 

(The  men  were  all  away,) 
Looked  out  to  see  the  stranger  oar 

Upon  their  waters  play. 

Deer-Island's  rocks  and  fir-trees  threw 
Their  sunset-shadows  o'er  them, 

And  Newbury's  spire  and  weathercock 
Peered  o'er  the  pines  before  them. 


Around  the  Black  Rocks,  on  their  left, 
The  marsh  lay  broad  and  green  ; 

And    on    their    right,   with    dwarf    shrubs 

crowned, 
Plum  Island's  hills  were  seen. 

With  skilful  hand  and  wary  eye 

The  harbor-bar  was  crossed  ; — 
A  plaything  of  the  restless  wave, 

The  boat  on  ocean  tossed. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  heaven 

On  land  and  water  lay, — 
On  the  steep  hills  of  Agawam, 

On  cape,  and  bluff,  and  bay. 

They  passed  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann, 

And  Gloucester's  harbor-bar ; 
The  watch-fire  of  the  garrison 

Shone  like  a  setting  star. 

How  brightly  broke  the  morning 

On  Massachusetts  Bay  ! 
Blue  wave,  and  bright  green  island, 

Rejoicing  in  the  day. 

On  passed  the  bark  in  safety 
Round  isle  and  headland  steep, — 

No  tempest  broke  above  them, 
No  fog-cloud  veiled  the  deep. 

Far  round  the  bleak  and  stormy  Cape 

The  vent'rous  Macey  passed, 
And  on  Nantucket's  naked  isle 

Drew  up  his  boat  at  last. 

And  how,  in  log-built  cabin, 
They  braved  the  rough  sea-weather  ; 

And  there,  in  peace  and  quietness, 
Went  down  life's  vale  together : 

How  others  drew  around  them, 

And  how  their  fishing  sped, 
Until  to  every  wind  of  heaven 

Nantucket's  sails  were  spread  ; 

How  pale  Want  alternated 

With  Plenty's  golden  smile ; 
Behold,  is  it  not  written 

In  the  annals  of  the  isle  ? 

And  yet  that  isle  remaineth 

A  refuge  of  the  free, 
As  when  true-hearted  Macey 

Beheld  it  from  the  sea. 

Free  as  the  winds  that  winnow 

Her  shrubless  hills  of  sand, — 
Free  as  the  waves  that  batter 

Along  her  yielding  land. 

Than  hers,  at  duty's  summons, 

No  loftier  spirit  stirs, — 
Nor  falls  o'er  human  suffering 

A  readier  tear  than  hers. 

God  bless  the  sea-beat  island  ! — 

And  grant  forevermore, 
That  charity  and  freedom  dwell 

As  now  upon  her  shore  ! 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD. 

DARK  the  halls,  and  cold  the  feast, — 
Gone  the  bridesmaids,  gone  the  priest : 
All  is  over, — all  is  done, 
Twain  of  yesterday  are  one  ! 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD. 


37 


Blooming  girl  and  manhood  gray, 
Autumn  in  the  arms  of  May  ! 

Hushed  within  and  hushed  without, 
Dancing  feet  and  wrestlers'  shout ; 
Dies  the  bonfire  on  the  hill ; 
All  is  dark  and  all  is  still, 
Save  the  starlight,  save  the  breeze 
Moaning  through  the  graveyard  trees  ; 
And  the  great  sea-waves  below, 
Pulse  of  the  midnight  beating  slow. 

From  the  brief  dream  of  a  bride 
She  hath  wakened,  at  his  side. 
With  half -uttered  shriek  and  start, — 
Feels  she  not  his  beating  heart  ? 
And  the  pressure  of  his  arm, 
And  his  breathing  near  and  warm  ? 

Lightly  from  the  bridal  bed 
Springs  that  fair  dishevelled  head, 
And  a  feeling,  new,  intense, 
Half  of  shame,  half  innocence, 
Maiden  fear  and  wonder  speaks 
Through  her  lips  and  changing  cheeks. 

From  the  oaken  mantel  glowing 
Faintest  light  the  lamp  is  throwing 
On  the  mirror's  antique  mould, 
High-backed  chair,  and  wainscot  old, 
And,  through  faded  curtains  stealing, 
His  dark  sleeping  face  revealing. 

Listless  lies  the  strong  man  there, 
Silver-streaked  his  careless  hair ; 
Lips  of  love  have  left  no  trace 
On  that  hard  and  haughty  face  ; 
And  that  forehead's  knitted  thought 
Love's  soft  hand  hath  not  unwrought. 

"  Yet,"  she  sighs,  "he  loves  me  well, 
More  than  these  calm  lips  will  tell. 
Stooping  to  my  lowly  state, 
He  hath  made  me  rich  and  great, 
And  I  bless  him,  though  he  be 
Hard  and  stern  to  all  save  me  !  " 

While  she  speaketh,  falls  the  light 
O'er  her  fingers  small  and  white  ; 
Gold  and  gem,  and  costly  ring 
Back  the  timid  lustre  fling, — 
Love's  selectest  gifts,  and  rare, 
His  proud  hand  had  fastened  there. 

Gratefully  she  marks  the  glow 
From  those  tapering  lines  of  snow ; 
Fondly  o'er  the  sleeper  bending 
His  black  hair  with  golden  blending, 
In  her  soft  and  light  caress, 
Cheek  and  lip  together  press. 

Ha  !— that  start  of  horror  !— Why 
That  wild  stare  and  wilder  cry, 
Full  of  terror,  full  of  pain  ? 
Is  there  madness  in  her  brain  ? 
Hark  !  that  gasping,  hoarse  and  low, 
"  Spare  me, — spare  me, — let  me  go  !  " 

God  have  mercy  ! — Icy  cold 
Spectral  hands  her  own  enfold, 
Drawing  silently  from  them 
Love's  fair  gifts  of  gold  and  gem, 


"Waken  !  save  me!  "  still  as  death 
At  her  side  he  slumbereth. 

Ring  and  bracelet  all  are  gone, 
And  that  ice-cold  hand  withdrawn  ; 
But  she  hears  a  murmur  low, 
Full  of  sweetness,  full  of  woe, 
Half  a  sigh  and  half  a  moan  : 
"  Fear  not !  give  the  dead  her  own  !  " 

Ah  ! — the  dead  wife's  voice  she  knows  ! 
That  cold  hand,  whose  pressure  froze, 
Once  in  warmest  life  had  borne 
Gem  and  band  her  own  hath  worn. 
"Wake  thee  !  wake  thee !  "    Lo,  his  eyes 
Open  with  a  dull  surprise. 

In  his  arms  the  strong  man  folds  her, 
Closer  to  his  breast  he  holds  her ; 
Trembling  limbs  his  own  are  meeting, 
And  he  feels  her  heart's  quick  beating  : 
"  Nay,  my  dearest,  why  this  fear  ?  " 
"  Hush  !  "  she  saith,  "the  dead  is  here  ! " 

"  Nay,  a  dream, — an  idle  dream." 

But  before  the  lamp's  pale  gleam 

Tremblingly  her  hand  she  raises, — 

There  no  more  the  diamond  blazes, 

Clasp  of  pearl,  or  ring  of  gold, — 

"  Ah  !  "  she  sighs,  "her  hand  was  cold  !  " 

Broken  words  of  cheer  he  saith, 

But  his  dark  lip  quivereth, 

And  as  o'er  the  past  he  thinketh, 

From  his  young  wife's  arms  he  shrinketh ; 

Can  those  soft  arms  round  him  lie, 

Underneath  his  dead  wife's  eye  ? 

She  her  fair  young  head  can  rest 
Soothed  and  childlike  on  his  breast, 
And  in  trustful  innocence 
Draw  new  strength  and  courage  thence ; 
He,  the  proud  man,  feels  within 
But  the  cowardice  of  sin ! 

She  can  murmur  in  her  thought 
Simple  prayers  her  mother  taught, 
And  His  blessed  angels  call. 
Whose  great  love  is  over  all ; 
He,  alone,  in  prayerless  pride, 
Meets  the  dark  Past  at  her  side  ! 

One,  who  living  shrank  with  dread 
From  his  look,  or  word,  or  tread, 
Unto  whom  her  early  grave 
Was  as  freedom  to  the  slave, 
Moves  him  at  this  midnight  hour, 
With  the  dead's  unconscious  power  ! 

Ah,  the  dead,  the  unforgot ! 

From  their  solemn  homes  of  thought, 

Where  the  cypress  shadows  blend 

Darkly  over  foe  and  friend, 

Or  in  love  or  sad  rebuke, 

Back  upon  the  living  look. 

And  the  tenderest  ones  and  weakest, 
Who  their  wrongs  have  borne  the  meekest, 
Lifting  from  those  dark,  still  places, 
Sweet  and  sad-remembered  faces, 
O'er  the  guilty  hearts  behind 
An  unwitting  triumph  find. 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 


VOICES    OF    FBEEDOM. 


FROM  1833  TO  1848. 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE.32 

'T  WAS  night.     The  tranquil  moonlight  smile 

With  which  Heaven  dreams  of  Earth,  shed  down 
Its  beauty  on  the  Indian  isie, — 

On  broad  green  field  and  white-walled  town  ; 
And  inland  waste  of  rock  and  wood, 
In  searching  sunshine,  wild  and  rude, 
Rose,  mellowed  through  the  silver  gleam, 
Soft  as  the  landscape  of  a  dream, 
All  motionless  and  dewy  wet, 
Tree,  vine,  and  flower  in  shadow  met 
The  myrtle  with  its  snowj'  bloom, 
Crossing  the  nightshade's  solemn  gloom, — 
The  white  cecropia's  silver  rind 
Relieved  by  deeper  green  behind,-- 
The  orange  with  its  fruit  of  gold, — 
The  lithe  paullinia's  verdant  fold, — 
The  passion-flower,  with  symbol  holy, 
Twining  its  tendrils  long  and  lowly,— 
The  rhexias  dark,  and  cassia  tall, 
And  proudly  rising  over  all, 
The  kingly  palm's  "imperial  stem, 
Crowned  with  its  leafy  diadem, 
Star-like,  beneath  whose  sombre  shade, 
The  fiery-winged  cucullo  played  ! 
Yes, — lovely  was  thine  aspect,  then, 

Fair  island  of  the  Western  Sea  ! 
Lavish  of  beauty,  even  when 
Thy  brutes  were  happier  than  thy  men, 

For  they,  at  least,  were  free  ! 
Regardless  of  thy  glorious  clime, 

Unmindful  of  thy  soil  of  flowers, 
The  toiling  negro  sighed,  that  Time 

No  faster  sped  his  hours. 
For,  by  the  dewy  moonlight  still, 
He  fed  the  weary-turning  mill, 
Or  bent  him  in  the  chill  morass, 
To  pluck  the  long  and  tangled  grass, 
And  hear  above  his  scar-worn  back 
The  heavy  slave-whip's  frequent  crack  : 
While  in  his  heart  one  evil  thought 
In  solitary  madness  wrought, 
One  baleful  fire  surviving  still 

The  quenching  of  the  immortal  mind, 

One  sterner  passion  of  his  kind, 
Which  even  fetters  could  not  kill, — 
The  savage  hope,  to  deal,  erelong, 
A  vengeance  bitterer  than  his  wrong  ! 

Hark  to  that  cry  ! — long,  loud,  and  shrill, 
From  field  and  forest,  rock  and  hill, 
Thrilling  and  horrible  it  rang, 

Around,  beneath,  above ; — 
The  wild  beast  from  his  cavern  sprang, 

The  wild  bird  from  her  grove  ! 
Nor  fear,  nor  joy,  nor  agony 
W'ere  mingled  in  that  midnight  cry ; 
But  like  the  lion's  growl  of  wrath, 
When  falls  that  hunter  in  his  path 
Whose  barbed  arrow,  deeply  set, 
Is  rankling  in  his  bosom  yet, 
It  told  of  hate,  full,  deep,  and  strong, 
Of  vengeance  kindling  out  of  wrong ; 
It  was  as  if  the  crimes  of  years — 
The  unrequited  toil,  the  tears, 
The  shame  and  hate,  which  liken  well 
Earth's  garden  to  the  nether  hell — 
Had  found  in  nature's  self  a  tongue, 
On  which  the  gathered  horror  hung  ; 
As  if  from  cliff,  and  stream,  and  glen 
Burst  on  the  startled  ears  of  men 
That  voice  which  rises  unto  God, 


Solemn  and  stern, — the  cry  of  blood  ! 
It  ceased, — and  all  was  still  once  more, 
Save  ocean  chafing  on  his  shore, 
The  sighing  of  the  wind  between 
The  broad  banana's  leaves  of  green, 
Or  bough  by  restless  plumage  shook, 
Or  murmuring  voice  of  mountain  brook. 

Brief  was  the  silence.     Once  again 

Pealed  to  the  skies  that  frantic  yell, 
Glowed  on  the  heavens  a  fiery  stain, 

And  flashes  rose  and  fell ; 
And  painted  on  the  blood-red  sky, 
Dark,  naked  arms  were  tossed  on  high  ; 
And,  round  the  white  man's  lordly  hall, 

Trod,  fierce  and  free,  the  brute  he  made; 
And  those  who  crept  along  the  wall, 
And  answered  to  his  lightest  call 

With  more  than  spaniel  dread, — 
The  creatures  of  his  lawless  beck, — 
Were  trampling  on  his  very  neck  ! 
And  on  the  night-air,  wild  and  clear, 
Rose  woman's  shriek  of  more  than  fear  ; 
For  bloodied  arms  were  round  her  thrown, 
And  dark  cheeks  pressed  against  her  own  ! 

Then,  injured  Afric  ! — for  the  shame 
Of  thy  own  daughters,  vengeance  came 
Full  on  the  scornful  hearts  of  those, 
Who  mocked  thee  in  thy  nameless  woes, 
And  to  thy  hapless  children  gave 
One  choice, — pollution  or  the  grave  ! 
Where  then  was  he  whose  fiery  zeal 
Had  taught  the  trampled  heart  to  feel, 
Until  despair  itself  grew  strong, 
And  vengeance  fed  its  torch  from  wrong  ? 
Now,  when  the  thunderbolt  is  speeding; 
Now,  when  oppression's  heart  is  bleeding  ; 
Now,  when  the  latent  curse  of  Time 

Is  raining  down  in  fire  and  blood, — 
Thai  curse  which,  through  long  years  of  crime, 

Has  gathered,  drop  by  drop,  its  flood, — 
Why  strikes  he  not,  the  foremost  one. 
Where  murder's  sternest  deeds  are  done  ? 

He  stood  the  aged  palms  beneath, 

That  shadowed  o'er  his  humble  door, 
Listening,  with  half-suspended  breath, 
To  the  wild  sounds  of  fear  and  death, 

Toussaint  FOuverture ! 
WThat  marvel  that  his  heart  beat  high  ! 

The  blow  for  freedom  had  been  given, 
And  blood  had  answered  to  the  cry 

Which  Earth  sent  up  to  Heaven  ! 
What  marvel  that  a  fierce  delight 
Smiled  grimly  o'er  his  brow  of  night, — 
As  groan  and'  shout  and  bursting  name 
Told  where  the  midnight  tempest  came, 
With  blood  and  fire  along  its  van, 
And  death  behind  ! — he  was  a  Man  ! 

Yes,  dark-souled  chieftain ! — if  the  light 

Of  mild  Religion's  heavenly  ray 
Unveiled  not  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  lowlier  and  the  purer  way, 
In  which  the  Holy  Su  ft'erer  trod, 

Meekly  amidst  the  sons  of  crime, — 
That  calm  reliance  upon  God 

For  justice  in  his  own  good  time, — 
That  gentleness  to  which  belongs 
Forgiveness  for  its  many  wrongs, 
Even  as  the  primal  martyr,  kneeling 
For  mercy  on  the  evil-dealing, — 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE.—  THE  SLAVE-SHIPS. 


Lst  not  the  favored  white  man  name 
Thy  stern  appeal,  with  words  of  blame. 
Has  he  not,  with  the  light  of  heaven 

Broadly  around  him,  made  the  same  ? 
Yea,  on  his  thousand  war-fields  striven, 

And  gloried  in  his  ghastly  shame  ? — 
Kneeling  amidst  his  brother's  blood, 
To  oft'er  mockery  unto  God, 
As  if  the  High  and  Holy  One 
Could  smile  on  deeds  of  murder  done! — • 
As  if  a  human  sacrifice 
Were  purer  in  his  Holy  eyes. 
Though  offered  up  by  Christian  hands, 
Than  the  foul  rites  of  Pagan  lands  ! 


Sternly,  amidst  his  household  band, 
His  carbine  grasped  within  his  hand, 

The  white  man  stood,  prepared  and  still, 
Waiting  the  shock  of  maddened  men, 
Unchained,  and  fierce  as  tigers,  when 

The  horn  winds  through  their  caverned  hill. 
And  one  was  weeping  in  his  sight, — 

The  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  isle, — 
The  bride  who  seemed  but  yesternight 

Love's  fair  embodied  smile. 
And,  clinging  to  her  trembling  knee, 
Looked  up  the  form  of  infancy, 
With  tearful  glance  in  either  face 
The  secret  of  its  fear  to  trace. 

"  Ha  !  stand  or  die  !  "    The  white  man's  eye 

His  steady  musket  gleamed  along, 
As  a  tall  Negro  hastened  nigh, 

With  fearless  step  and  strong. 
"What,  ho,  Toussaint!  "     A  moment  more, 
His  shadow  crossed  the  lighted  floor. 
"  Away  !  "  he  shouted  ;   "  fly  with  me, — 
The  white  man's  bark  is  on  the  sea; — 
Her  sails  must  catch  the  seaward  wind, 
For  sudden  vengeance  sweeps  behind. 
Our  brethren  from  their  graves  have  spoken, 
The  yoke  is  spurned, — the  chain  i  sbroken  ; 
On  all  the  hills  our  fires  are  glowing, — 
Through  all  the  vales  red  blood  is  flowing  ! 
No  more  the  mocking  White  shall  rest 
His  foot  upon  the  Negro's  breast ; 
No  more,  at  morn  or  eve,  shall  drip 
The  warm  blood  from  the  driver's  whip  : 
Yet,  though  Toussaint  has  vengeance  sworn 
For  all  the  wrongs  his  race  have  borne, — 
Though  for  each  drop  of  Negro  blood 
The  white  man's  veins  shall  pour  a  flood ; 
Not  all  alone  the  sense  of  ill 
Around  his  heart  is  lingering  still, 
Nor  deeper  can  the  white  man  feel 
The  generous  warmth  of  grateful  zeal. 
Friends  of  the  Negro  !  fly  with  me,— 
The  path  is  open  to  the  sea  : 
Away,  for  life  !  "—He  spoke,  and  pressed 
The  young  child  to  his  manly  breast, 
As,  headlong,  through  the  cracking  cane, 
Down  swept  the  dark  insurgent  train, — 
Drunken  and  grim,  with  shout  and  yell 
Howled  through    the    dark,   like    sounds    from 
hell. 

Far  out,  in  peace,  the  white  man's  sail 
Swayed  free  before  the  sunrise  gale. 
Cloud-like  that  island  hung  afar, 

Along  the  bright  horizon's  verge, 
O'er  which  the  curse  of  servile  war 

Rolled  its  red  torrent,  surge  on  surge  ; 
And  he — the  Negro  champion — where 

In  the  fierce  tumult  struggled  he  ? 
Go  trace  him  by  the  fiery  glare 
Of  dwellings  in  the  midnight  air, — 
The  yells  of  triumph  and  despair, — 

The  streams  that  crimson  to  the  sea  ! 


Sleep  calmly  in  thy  dungeon-tomb, 

Beneath  Besancon's  alien  sky, 
Dark  Haytien  ! — for  the  time  shall  come, 

Yea,  even  now  is  nigh, — 
When,  everywhere,  thy  name  shall  be 
Redeemed  from  color's  infamy  ; 
And  men  shall  learn  to  speak  of  thee, 
As  one  of  earth's  great  spirits,  born 
In  servitude,  and  nursed  in  scorn, 
Casting  aside  the  weary  weight 
And  fetters  of  its  low  estate, 
In  that  strong  majesty  of  soul 

Which  knows  no  color,  tongue,  or  clime, — 
Which  still  hath  spurned  the  base  control 

Of  tyrants  through  all  time  ! 
Far  other  hands  than  mine  may  wreathe 
The  laurel  round  thy  brow  of  death, 
And  speak  thy  praise,  as  one  whose  word 
A  thousand  fiery  spirits  stirred, — 
Who  crushed  his  foeman  as  a  worm, — 
Whose  step  on  human  hearts  fell  firm: — 33 
Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 
A  tribute  for  thy  lofty  mind, 
Amidst  whose  gloomy  vengeance  shone 
j  Some  milder  virtues  all  thine  own, — 
Some  gleams  of  feeling  pure  and  warm, 
Like  sunshine  on  a  sky  of  storm, — 
Proofs  that  the  Negro's  heart  retains 
Some  nobleness  amidst  its  chains, — 
That  kindness  to  the  wronged  is  never 

Without  its  excellent  reward, — 
Holy  to  human-kind,  and  ever 

Acceptable  to  God. 


THE  SLAVE-SHIPS.34 

"  That  fatal,  that  perfidious  bark, 
I  Built  i'  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark." 

Milton's  Lyciclas. 

"ALL  ready  ?  "  cried  the  captain ; 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  the  seamen  said  ; 
"  Heave  up  the  worthless  lubbers, — 

The  dying  and  the  dead." 
Up  from  the  slave-ship's  prison 

Fierce,  bearded  heads  were  thrust  : 
"  Now  k't  the  sharks  look  to  it, — 

Toss  up  the  dead  ones  first !" 

Corpse  after  corpse  came  up, — 

Death  had  been  busy  there  ; 
Where  every  blow  is  mercy, 

Why  should  the  spoiler  spare  ? 
Corpse  after  corpse  they  cast 

Sullenly  from  the  ship, 
Yet  bloody  with  the  traces 

Of  fetter-link  and  whip. 

Gloomily  stood  the  captain, 

With  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 
With  his  cold  brow  sternly  knotted, 

And  his  iron  lip  compressed. 
"  Are  all  the  dead  dogs  over  ?  " 

Growled  through  that  matted  lip, — 
"The  blind  ones  are  no  better, 

Let's  lighten  the  good  ship." 

Hark  !  from  the  ship's  dark  bosom, 

The  very  sounds  of  hell ! 
The  ringing  clank  of  iron, — 

The  maniac's  short  sharp,  yell ! — 
The  hoarse,  low  curse,  throat-stifled, — 

The  starving  infant's  moan, — 
The  horror  of  a  breaking  heart 

Poured  through  a  mother's  groan. 

Up  from  that  loathsome  prison 
The  stricken  blind  ones  came  : 

Below,  had  all  been  darkness, — 
Above,  was  still  the  same. 


40 


THE  SLAVE-SHIPS.— STANZAS. 


Yet  the  holy  breath  of  heaven 
\Vas  sweetly  breathing  there, 

And  the  heated  brow  of  fever 
Cooled  in  the  soft  sea  air. 

4 '  Overboard  with  them,  shipmates ! 

Cutlass  and  dirk  were  plied ; 
Fettered  and  blind,  one  after  one, 

Plunged  down  the  vessel's  side. 
The  sabre  smote  above, — 

Beneath,  the  lean  shark  lay, 
Waiting  with  wide  and  bloody  jaw 

His  quick  and  human  prey. 

God  of  the  earth !  what  cries 

Rang  upward  unto  thee  ? 
Voices  of  agony  and  blood, 

From  ship-deck  and  from  sea. 
The  last  dull  plunge  was  heard, — 

The  last  wave  caught  its  stain, — 
And  the  unsated  shark  looked  up 

For  human  hearts  in  vain. 


Bed  glowed  the  western  waters, — 

The  setting  sun  was  there, 
Scattering  alike  on  wave  and  cloud 

His  fiery  mesh  of  hair. 
Amidst  a  group  in  blindness, 

A  solitary  eye 
Gazed,  from  the  burdened  slaver's  deck, 

Into  that  burning  sky. 

"  A  storm,"  spoke  out  the  gazer, 

"Is  gathering  and  at  hand, — 
Curse  on  't — I  'd  give  my  other  eye 

For  one  firm  rood  of  land. " 
And  then  he  laughed, — but  only 

His  echoed  laugh  replied, — 
For  the  blinded  and  the  suffering 

Alone  were  at  his  side. 

Night  settled  on  the  waters, 
And  on  a  stormy  heaven. 
While  fiercely  on  that  lone  ship's  track 

The  thunder-gust  was  driven. 
"  A  sail !— thank  God,  a  sail !  " 

And  as  the  helmsman  spoke, 
Up  through  the  stormy  murmur 

A  shout  of  gladness  broke. 

Down  came  the  stranger  vessel, 

Unheeding  on  her  way, 
So  near  that  on  the  slaver's  deck 

Fell  off  her  driven  spray. 
"  Ho  !  for  the  love  of  mercy, — 

We  're  perishing  and  blind  !  " 
A  wail  of  utter  agony 

Came  back  upon  the  wind : 

"Help  us!  for  we  are  stricken 

With  blindness  every  one  ; 
Ten  days  we  Ve  floated  fearfully, 

Unnoting  star  or  sun. 
Our  ship  's  the  slaver  Leon, — 

We  've  but  a  score  on  board, — 
Our  slaves  are  all  gone  over, — 

Help, — for  the  love  of  God !  " 

On  livid  brows  of  agony 

The  broad  red  lightning  shone, — 
But  the  roar  of  wind  and  thunder 

Stifled  the  answering  groan  ; 
Wailed  from  the  broken  waters 

A  last  despairing  cry, 
As,  kindling  in  the  stormy  light, 

The  stranger  ship  went  by. 


In  the  sunny  Guadalou 
•  A  dark-hulled  vessel 


pe 
Kv, 


With  a  crew  who  noted  never 

The  nightfall  or  the  day. 
The  blossom  of  the  orange 

Was  white  by  every  stream, 
And  tropic  leaf,  and  flower,  and  bird 

Were  in  the  warm  sunbeam. 

And  the  sky  was  bright  as  ever, 

And  the  moonlight  slept  as  well, 
On  the  palm-trees  by  the  hillside, 

And  the  streamlet  of  the  dell : 
And  the  glances  of  the  Creole 

Were  still  as  archly  deep, 
And  her  smiles  as  full  as  ever 

Of  passion  and  of  sleep. 

But  vain  were  bird  and  blossom, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sky, 
And  the  smile  of  human  faces, 

To  the  slaver's  darkened  eye  ; 
At  the  breaking  of  the  morning, 

At  the  star-lit  evening  time, 
O'er  a  world  of  light  and  beauty 

Fell  the  blackness  of  his  crime. 


STANZAS. 

["  The  despotism  which  our  fathers  could  not  bear  in 
their  native  country  is  expiring,  and  the  sword  of  jus 
tice  in  her  reformed  hands  has  applied  its  exterminating 
edge  to  slavery.  Shall  the  United  States — the  free 
United  States,  which  could  not  bear  the  bonds  of  a  king 
— cradle  the  bondage  which  a  king  is  abolishing?  Shall 
a  Republic  be  less  free  than  a  Monarchy  ?  Shall  we,  in 
the  vigor  and  buoyancy  of  our  manhood,  be  less  ener 
getic  in  righteousness  than  a  kingdom  in  its  age  ?  " — Dr. 
Follerfs  Address. 

"  G-enius  of  America ! — Spirit  of  our  free  institutions  ! 
— where  art  thou  ?— How  art  thou  fallen,  O  Lucifer  !  son 
of  the  morning, — how  art  thou  fallen  from  Heaven  ! 
Hell  from  beneath  is  moved  for  thee,  to  meet  thee  at 
thy  coming ! — The  kings  of  the  earth  cry  out  to  thee, 
Aha!  Aha!— ART  THOU  BECOME  LIKE  UNTO  us?"— 
Speech  of  Samuel  J.  May.} 

OUR  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  ! 

Slaves — in  a  land  of  light  and  law ! 
Slaves — crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where  rolled  the  storm  of  Freedom's  war  ! 
A  groan  from  Eutaw's  haunted  wood, — 

A  wail  where  Camden's  martyrs  fell, — 
By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 

From  Moultrie's  wall  and  Jaspar's  well ! 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 
Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 

And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion's  men  ! 
The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there, — 

The  falling  lash,— the  fetter's  clank  ! 
Slaves,— SLAVES  are  breathing  in  that  air, 

Which  old  De  Kalb  and  Sumter  drank  ! 

What,  ho  ! — our  countrymen  in  chains  ! 

The  whip  on  WOMAN'S  shrinking  flesh  ! 
Oar  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains 

Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and  fresh  ! 
What !  mothers  from  their  children  riven  ! 

What !  God's  own  image  bought  and  sold  ! 
AMERICANS  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold  ! 

Speak  !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 
To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 

The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain  ; 
To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 

Of  holy  Liberty  andL;ght, — 
Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong 

Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Right  V 


STANZAS. 


41 


•  Our  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  !  " 


What !  shall  we  send,  with  lavish  breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom  or  a  grave  ? 
•Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be  sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurning, 
And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 

Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning  ? 

Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By  Vendome's  pile  and  Schoenbrun's  wall, 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call  ? 
And  shall  the  SLAVE,  beneath  our  eye, 

Clank  o'er  our  fields  his  hateful  chain? 
And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain? 

O,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave  ? 
And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 

By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave  ? 
And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 

Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 
And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain, 

From  fettered  soul  and  limb,  aside  ? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free, 
From  ''farthest  Ind  "  to  each  blue  crag 

That  beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea  ? 
And  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe's  kings, 

When  Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with  us, 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 

The  damning  shade  of  Slavery's  curse  ? 

Go — let  us  ask  of  Constantine 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat ; 
And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliota, — 
Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From  turbaned  Turk,  and  scornful  Russ  : 
"  Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home, 

Then  turn,  and  ask  the  like  of  us  !  " 


Just  God  !  and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 

The  Christian's  scorn — the  heathen's  mirth — 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by-word  of  a  mocking  Earth  ? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 

That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to  bear  ? 
Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 

Which  not  even  Russia's  menials  wear  ? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 

From  graybeard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  tbte  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth  ! 
Up, — while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing  ! 
Up, — while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 

In  blood,  around  our  altars  flowing  ! 

Oh  !  rouse  ye,  ere  the  storm  comes  forth, — 

The  gathered  wrath  of  God  and  man, — 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air  ? 

Feel  ye  no  earthq uake  underneath  ? 
Up, — up  !  why  will  ye  slumber  where 

The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death  ? 

Up  now  for  Freedom  ! — not  in  strife 

Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw, — 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life, — 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war  : 
But  break  the  chain, — the  yoke  remove, 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod, 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God  ! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood  ; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood  ; 
But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given, 
And  Freedom's  gift,  and  Freedom's  prayer, 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heaven ! 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL.— SONG  OF  THE  FREE. 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL. 

_;      SHE  sings  by  her  wheel  at  that  low  cottage-door, 
Which  the  long  evening  shadow  is  stretching  be 
fore, 

With  a  music  as  sweet  as  the  music  which  seems 
Breathed   softly   and    faint   in   the   ear   of    our 
dreams  ! 

How  brilliant  and  mirthful  the  light  of  her  eye, 
Like  a  star  glancing  out  from  the  blue   of  the 

sky  ! 

And  lightly  and  freely  her  dark  tresses  play 
O'er  a  brow  and  a  bosom  as  lovely  as  they  ! 

Who  comes  in  his  pride  to  that  low  cottage- 
door, — 

The  haughty  and  rich  to  the  humble  and  poor  ? 

*T  is  the  great  Southern  planter, — the  master 
who  waves 

His  whip  of  dominion  o'er  hundreds  of  slaves. 

"Nay,   Ellen, — for  shame!     Let  those   Yankee 

fools  spin, 
Who  would  pass  for  our  slaves  with  a  change  of 

their  skin ; 
Let  them  toil  as  they  will  at  the  loom  or  the 

wheel, 
Too  stupid  for  shame,  and  too  vulgar  to  feel ! 

"  But  thou  art  too  lovely  and  precious  a  gem 
To  be  bound  to  their  burdens  and  sullied  by 

them, — 
For    shame,   Ellen,    shame, — cast    thy    bondage 

aside, 
And  away   to  the   South,    as   my  blessing  and 

pride. 

"  O,   come  where  no  winter  thy  footsteps  can 

wrong, 
But  where  flowers  are  blossoming  all  the  year 

long, 
Where  the  shade  of  the  palm-tree  is  over  my 

home, 
And  the  lemon  and  orange  are  white  in  their 

bloom  ! 

lt  O,  come  to  my  home,  where  my  servants  shall 

all 

Depart  at  thy  bidding  and  come  at  thy  call ; 
They  shall  heed  thee  as  mistress  with  trembling 

and  awe, 
And  each  wish  of  thy  heart  shall  be  felt  as  a 

law." 

O,  could  ye  have  seen  her — that  pride  of  our 

girl's — 

•    A  rise  and  cast  back  the  dark  wealth  of  her  curls, 
With  a  scorn  in  her  eve  which  the  gazer  could 

feel, 
And  a  glance  like  the  sunshine  that  flashes  on 

steel ! 

' '  Go  back,  haughty  Southron  !  thy  treasures  of 

gold 
Are  dim  with  the  blood  of  the  hearts  thou  hast 

sold ; 

Thy  home  may  be  lovely,  but  round  it  I  hear 
The  crack  of  the  whip  and  the  footsteps  of  fear  ! 

"  And  the  sky  of  thy  South  may  be  brighter  than 

ours, 
And    greener    thy    landscapes,    and    fairer    thy 

flowers ; 
But  dearer  the  blast  round  our  mountains  which 

raves, 
Than  the  sweet  summer  zephyr  which  breathes 

over  slaves  ! 


"  Full  low  at  thy  bidding  thy  negroes  may  kneel, 
With  the  iron  of  bondage  on  spirit  and  heel ; 
Yet  know  that  the  Yankee  girl  sooner  would  be 
In    fetters  with    them,   than  in  freedom  with 
thee  !  " 


TO  W.   L.   G. 

CHAMPION  of  those  who  groan  beneath 

Oppression's  iron  hand : 
In  view  of  penury,  hate,  and  death, 

I  see  thee  fearless  sta4id. 
Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 

In  the  steadfast  strength  of  truth, 
In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 

And  promise  of  thy  youth. 

Go  on, — for  thou  hast  chosen  well ; 

On  in  the  strength  of  God  ! 
Long  as  one  human  heart  shall  swell 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  rod. 
Speak  in  a  slumbering  nation's  ear, 

As  thou  hasb  ever  spoken, 
Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear, — 

The  fetter's  link  be  broken  ! 

I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill. 
My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine, 

And  echo  back  thy  words, 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords  ! 

They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain, — 

A  searcher  after  fame  ; 
That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 

A  long-enduring  name ; 
That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric's  hand 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  heart, 
To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 

Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and  read 

Thy  mighty  purpose  lony  ? 
And  watched  the  trials  which  have  made 

Thy  human  spirit  strong  'i 
And  shall  the  slanderer's  demon  breath 

Avail  with  one  like  me, 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 

And  earnest  trust  in  thee  ? 

Go  on, — the  dagger's  point  may  glare 

Amid  thy  pathway's  gloom,  - 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom  ! 
Then  onward  with  a  martyr's  zeal  ; 

And  wait  thy  sure  reward 
When  man  to  man  no  more  shall  kneel, 

And  God  alone  be  Lord  ! 
1833. 


SONG  OF  THE  FREE. 

PRIDE  of  New  England  ! 

Soul  of  our  fathers  ! 
Shrink  we  all  craven-like, 

When  the  storm  gathers  ? 
What  though  the  tempest  be 

Over  us  lowering. 
Where  's  the  New-Englander 

Shamefully  cowering  ? 
Graves  green  and  holy 

Around  us  are  lying, — 
Free  were  the  sleepers  all, 

Living  arid  dying  ! 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN.— CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS. 


43 


Back  with  the  Southerner's 

Padlocks  and  scourges  ! 
Go, — lot  him  fetter  down 

Ocean's  free  surges  ! 
Go, — let  him  silence 

Winds,  clouds,  and  waters, 
Never  New  England's  own 

Free  sons  and  daughters  ! 
Free  as  our  rivers  are 

Ocean -ward  going, — 
Frea  as  the  breezes  are 

Over  us  blowing. 

Up  to  our  altars,  then, 

Haste  we,  and  summon 
Courage  and  loveliness. 

Manhood  and  woman  ! 
Deep  let  our  pledges  be  : 

Freedom  forever  ! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  O,  never ! 
By  our  own  birthright-gift, 

Granted  of  Heaven, — 
Freedom  for  heart  and  Up, 

Be  the  pledge  given  ! 

If  we  have  whispered  truth, 

Whispsr  no  longer ; 
Speak  as  the  tempest  does, 

Sterner  and  stronger ; 
Still  be  the  tones'  of  truth   - 

Louder  and  firmer, 
Startling  the  haughty  South 

With  the  deep  murmur  ; 
God  and  our  charter's  right, 

Freedom  forever  ! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  O,  never ! 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN. 

HAVE  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,   o'er  mountain 

and  glen, 
Through  cane-brake  and  forest, — the  hunting  of 

men  "i 

The  lords  of  our  land  to  this  hunting  have  gone, 
As  the  fox-hunter  follows  the  sound  of  the  horn ; 
Hark  ! — the  cheer  and  the  hallo  ! — the  crack  of 

the  whip, 

And  the  yell  of  the  hound  as  he  fastens  his  grip ! 
All  blithe  are  our  hunters,  and  noble  their 

match, — 
Though  hundreds  are  caught,  there  are  millions 

to  catch. 
So  speed   to   their  hunting,   o'er  mountain  and 

glen, 
Through  cane-brake  and  forest, — the  hunting  of 

men  ! 

G.iy  luck  to  our  hunters  ! — how  nobly  they  ride 
In  the  glow  of  their  zeal,  and  the"strength  of 

their  prid:  ! — 
Th     priest  with  his  cassock  flung  back  on  the 

wind, 

Just  screening  the' politic  statesman  behind, — 
T,!c   saint    and    th^    sinner,    with   cursing   and 

prayer, 

The  drunk  and  tho  sober,  ride  merrily  there. 
And  woman, — kind  woman, — wife,  widow,  and 

maid, 

For  the  good  of  the  hunted,  is  lending  her  aid  : 

-  Her  foot 's  in  the  stirrup,  her  hand  on  the  rein, 

How  blithely  she  rides  to  the  hunting  of  men  ! 

O,  goodly  and  grand  is  our  hunting  to  see, 
In  this  "  land  of  the  brave  and  this  home  of  the 
free." 


Priest,  warrior,  and  statesman,  fro*m  Georgia  to 

Maine, 

All  mounting  the  saddle, — all  grasping  the  rein, — 
Right  merrily  hunting  the  black  man,  whose  sin 
Is  the  curl  of  his  hair  and  the  hue  of  his  skin  ! 
Woe,  now,  to  the  hunted  who  turns  him  at  bay  ! 
Will  our  hunters  be  turned  from  their  purpose 

and  prey  ? 
Will  their  hearts  fail  within  them  ? — their  nerves 

•    tremble,  when 
All  roughly  they  ride  to  the  hunting  of  men  ? 

Ho  ! — ALMS    for  our    hunters  !    all  weary   and 

.    faint, 
Wax  the  curse  of  the  sinner  and  prayer  of  the 

saint. 

yhe  horn  is  wound  faintly, — the  echoes  are  still, 
Over  cane-brake  and  river,  and  forest  and  hill. 
Haste, — alms  for  our  hunters  !  the  hunted  once 

more 
Have  turned  from  their  flight  with  their  backs  to 

the  shore  : 
What  right  have  they  here  in  the  home  of  the 

white, 
Shadowed  o'er  by  our  banner  of  Freedom  and 

Right  V 

Ho  !  alms  for  the  hunters  !  or  never  again 
Will  they  ride  in  their  pomp  to  the  hunting  of 

men  ! 

ALMS, — ALMS  for  our  I  imnters  !  why  will  ye  de 
lay, 

When  their  pride  and  their  glory  are  melting 
away  ? 

The  parson  has   turned ;  for,   on  charge  of  his 
own, 

Who  goeth  a  warfare,  or  hunting,  alone  ? 

The  politic  statesman  looks  back  with  a  sigh, — 

There  is  doubt  in  his  heart, — there  is  fear  in  his 
eye.     \_^/ 

O,  haste,  lest  that  doubting  and  fear  shall  pre 
vail, 

And  the  head  of  his  steed  take  the  place  of  the 
tail. 

O,  haste,  ere  he  leave  us  !  for  who  will  ride  then, 

For  pleasure  or  gain,  to  the  hunting  of  men  ? 
1835. 


CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS. 

[In  the  report  of  the  celebrated  proslavery  meeting  in 
Charlestown,  S.  C.,  on  the  4th  of  the  9th  month,  1835, 
published  in  the  Courier  of  that  city,  it  is  stated  :  "  The 
CLERGY  of  all  denominations  attended  in  a  body, 

LENDING   THEIR   SANCTION   TO    THE    PROCEEDINGS,    aild 

adding  by  their  presence  to  the  impressive  character  of 
the  scene ! "] 

JUST  God  ! — and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  thine  altar,  God  of  Right ! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and  blessing 
lay 

On  Israel's  Ark  of  light ! 

What !  preach  and  kidnap  men  ? 
Give  thanks, — and  rob  thy  own  afflicted  poor  ? 
Talk  of  thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door  ? 

What !  servants  of  thy  own 
Merciful  Son,  who  came  to  seek  and  save 
The  homeless  and  the  outcast, — fettering  down 

The  tasked  and  plundered  slave  ! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends  ! 
Chief  priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  combine  ! 
Just  God  and  holy  !  is  that  church,  which  lends 

Strength  to  the  spoiler,  thine  ? 


44 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE.— STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 


Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,  and  rob  the  Holy  Book 
Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which  search  and 
burn 

In  warning  and  rebuke ; 

Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed  ! 
And,  in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank  the  Lord 
That,  from  the  toiling  bondman's  utter  need, 

Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long 
Shall  such  a  priesthood  barter  truth  away, 
And  in  thy  name,  for  robbery  and  wrong 

At  thy  own  altars  pray  ? 

Is  not  thy  hand  stretched  forth 
Visibly  in  the  heavens,  to  awe  and  smite  ? 
Shall  not  the  living  God  of  all  the  earth, 

And  heaven  above,  do  right  ? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren  of  a  common  Father  down  ! 
To  all  who  plunder  from  the  immortal  mind 

Its  bright  and  glorious  crown  ! 

Woe  to  the  priesthood  !  woe 
To  those  whose  hire  is  with  the  price  of  blood, — 
Perverting,  darkening,  changing,  as  they  go, 

The  searching  truths  of  God 

Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall  perish  ;  and  their  very  names  shall  be 
Vile  before  all  the  people,  in  the  light 

Of  a  world's  liberty. 

O,  speed  the  moment  on 

When  Wrong  shall  cease,  and  Liberty  and  Love 
And  Truth  and  Bight  throughout  the  earth  be 
known 

As  in  their  home  above. 


THE  CHBISTIAN  SLAVE. 

[In  a  late  publication  of  L.  T.  Tasistro— "  Random 
Shots  and  Southern  Breezes  " — is  a  debcription  of  a  slave 
auction  at  New  Orleans,  at  which  the  auctioneer  recom 
mended  the  woman  on  the  stand  as  "A  GOOD  CHRIS 
TIAN  ! "] 

A  CHRISTIAN  !  going,  gone ! 
Who  bids  for  God's  own  image  V — for  his  grace, 
Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market-place 

Hath  in  her  suffering  won  ? 

My  God !  can  such  things  be  ? 
Hast  thou  not  said  that  whatsoe'er  is  done 
Unto  thy  weakest  and  thy  humblest  one 

Is  even  done  to  thee  V 

In  that  sad  victim,  then, 
Child  of  thy  pitying  love,  I  see.  thee  stand,— 
Once  more  the  jest-word  of  a  mocking  band, 

Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again  ! 

A  Christian  up  for  sale ! 
Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips,   o'er-task  her 

frame, 
Make  her  life  loathsome  with  your  wrong  and 

shame, 
Her  patience  shall  not  fail ! 

A  heathen  hand  might  deal 

Back  on  your  heads  the  gathered  wrong  of  years : 
But  her  low,  broken  prayer  and  nightly  tears, 

Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er, 
Thou  prudent  teacher, — tell  the  toiling  slave 


No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came  to  save 
The  outcast  and  the  poor. 

But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's  free  Gospel  from  her  simple  heart, 
And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  impart 

One  stern  command, — OBEY  ! 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market  price  of  human  flesh  ;  and  while 
On   thee,   their    pampered    guest,    the  planters 
smile, 

Thy  church  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work  was  blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  Sodom  first  and  best, 

Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

O,  shame  !  the  Moslem  thrall, 
Who,  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet  kneels, 
While  turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla  feels 

His  fetters  break  and  fall. 

Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of  robber-peopled  Tunis  !  he  hath  torn 
The  dark  slave-dungeons  open,  and  hath  borne 

Their  inmates  into  day : 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 

Turns  to  the  Christian  shrine  his  aching  eyes, — 
Its  rites  will  only  swell  his  market  price, 

And  rivet  on  his  chain. 

God  of  all  right !  how  long 
Shall  priestly  robbers  at  thine  altar  stand, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to  thee,  the  bloody  hand 

And  haughty  brow  of  wrong  ? 

O,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 
From    the    low    rice -swamp,   from  the  trader's 

cell,— 
From  the  black  slave-ship's  foul  and  loathsome 

hell, 
And  coffle's  weary  chain, — 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 
Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry, 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky, 

How  LONG,  O  GOD,  iiow  LONG  ? 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 

Is  this  the  land  our  fathers  loved, 

The  freedom  which  they  toiled  to  win  ? 

Is  this  the  soil  whereon  they  moved  ? 
Are  these  the  graves  they  slumber  in  ? 

Are  we  the  sons  by  whom  are  borne 

The  mantles  which  the  dead  have  worn  " 

And  shall  we  crouch  above  these  graves, 
With  craven  soul  and  fettered  lip  ? 

Yoke  in  with  marked  and  branded  slaves, 
And  tremble  at  the  driver's  whip  ? 

Bend  to  the  earth  our  pliant  knees, 

And  speak — but  as  our  masters  please  ? 

Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel  ? 

Shall  Mercy's  tears  no  longer  flow  ? 
Shall  ruffian  threats  of  cord  and  steel, — 

The  dungeon's  gloom, — the  assassin's  blow, 
Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 
The  Truth,  our  Country,  and  the  Slave  ? 

Of  human  skulls  that  shrine  was  made, 
Round  which  the  priests  of  Mexico 

Before  their  loathsome  idol  prayed ; — 
Is  Freedom's  altar  fashioned  so  V 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. -LINES. 


And  must  we  yield  to  Freedom's  God, 
As  offering  meet,  the  negro's  blood  ? 

Shall  tongues  be  mute,  when  deeds  are  wrought 
Which  well  might  shame  extremest  hell  ? 

Shall  freemen  lock  the  indignant  thought  ? 
Shall  Pity's  bosom  cease  to  swell  ? 

Shall  Honor  bleed  V— shall  Truth  succumb  V 

Shall  pen,  and  press,  and  soul  be  dumb  ? 

No ; — by  each  spot  of  haunted  ground, 

Where  Freedom  weeps  her  children's  fall, — 

By  Plymouth's  rock,  and  Bunker's  mound, — 
By  Griswold's  stained  and  shattered  wall, — 

By  Warren's  ghost, — by  Langdon's  shade, — 

By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead  ! 

By  their  enlarging  souls,  which  burst 
The  bands  and  fetters  round  them  set, — 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet, — 

By  all  above,  around,  below, 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer, — NO  ! 

No  ; — guided  by  our  country's  laws, 

For  truth,  and  right,  and  suffering  man, 

Be  ours  to  strive  in  Freedom's  cause, 
As  Christians  may,— as  freemen  can! 

Still  pouring  on  unwilling  ears 

That  truth  oppression  only  fears. 

What !  shall  we  guard  our  neighbor  still, 
While  woman  shrieks  beneath  his  rod, 

And  while  he  tramples  down  at  will 
The  image  of  a  common  God  ! 

Shall  watch  and  ward  be  round  him  set, 

Of  Northern  nerve  and  bayonet  ? 

And  shall  we  know  and  share  with  him 
The  danger  and  the  growing  shame  ? 

And  see  our  Freedom's  light  grow  dim, 

Which  should  have  filled  the  world  with  flame  V 

And,  writhing,  feel,  where'er  we  turn, 

A  world's  reproach  around  us  burn ? 

Is  't  not  enough  that  this  is  borne  ? 

And  asks  our  haughty  neighbor  more  ? 
Must  fetters  which  his  slaves  have  worn 

Clank  round  the  Yankee  farmer's  door  ? 
Must  he  be  told,  beside  his  plough, 
What  he  must  speak,  and  when,  and  how  ? 

Must  he  be  told  his  freedom  stands 

On  Slavery's  dark  foundations  strong, — 

On  breaking  hearts  and  fettered  hands, 
On  robbery,  and  crime,  and  wrong  ? 

That  all  his  fathers  taught  is  vain, — 

That  Freedom's  emblem  is  the  chain  ? 

Its  life,  its  soul,  from  slavery  drawn  ? 

False,  foul,  profane  !  Go, — teach  a  well 
Of  holy  Truth  from  Falsehood  born  ! 

Of  Heaven  refreshed  by  airs  from  Hell ! 
Of  Virtue  in  the  arms  of  Vice  ! 
Of  Demons  planting  Paradise  ! 

Rail  on,  then,  u  brethren  of  the  South," — 
Ye  shall  not  hear  the  truth  the  less  ; — 

No  seal  is  on  the  Yankee's  mouth, 
No  fetter  on  the  Yankee's  press  ! 

From  our  Green  Mountains  to  the  sea, 

One  voice  shall  thunder, — WE  ARE  FREE! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  READING  THE   MESSAGE  OF  GOVER 
NOR  RITNER,  OF  PENNSYLVANIA,  1836. 

THANK  God  for  the  token  ! — one  lip  is  still  free, — 
One  spirit  untrammelled, — unbending  one  knee  ! 


Like  the  oak  of  the  mountain,  deep-rooted  and 

firm, 

Erect,  when  the  multitude  bends  to  the  storm ; 
When  traitors  to  Freedom,  and  Honor,  and  God, 
Are  bowed  at  an  Idol  polluted  with  blood ; 
When  the  recreant  North  has  forgotten  her  trust, 
And  the  lip  of  her  honor  is  low  in  the  dust, — 
Thank  God,  that  one  arm  from  the  shackle  has 

broken ! 
Thank  God,   that  one  man  as  a  freeman  has 

spoken ! 

O'er  thy  crags,  Alleghany,  a  blast  has  been  blown  ! 
Down  thy  tide,  Susquehanna,  the  murmur  has 

gone  ! 
To  the  land  of  the  South,— of  the  charter  and 

chain, — 

Of  Liberty  sweetened  with  Slavery's  pain  ; 
Where  the  cant  of  Democracy  dwells  on  the  lips 
Of  the  forgers  of  fetters,  and  wielders  of  whips  ! 
Where  "chivalric"  honor  means  really  no  more 
Than  scourging  of  women,  and  robbing  the  poor  ! 
Where  the  Moloch  of  Slavery  sitteth  on  high, 
And  the  words  which  he  utters,  are — WORSHIP, 

OR  DIE  ! 

Right  onward,  O  speed  it !    Wherever  the  blood 
Of  the  wronged  and  the  guiltless  is  crying  to 

God; 

Wherever  a  slave  in  his  fetters  is  pining  ; 
Wherever  the  lash  of  the  driver  is  twining ; 
Wherever  from  kindred,  torn  rudely  apart, 
Comes  the  sorrowful  wail  of  the  broken  of  heart ; 
Wherever  the  shackles  of  tyranny  bind, 
In  silence  and  darkness,  the  God-given  mind  ; 
There,  God  speed  it  onward  ! — its  truth  will  be 

felt,— 

The  bonds  shall  be  loosened, — the  iron  shall  melt ! 
»  • 

And  O,  will  the  land  where  the  free  soul  of  PENN 

Still  lingers  and  breathes  over  mountain  and 
glen,— 

Will  the  land  where  a  BENEZET'S  spirit  went 
forth 

To  the  peeled  and  the  meted,  and  outcast  of 
Earth,— 

Where  the  words  of  the  Charter  of  Liberty  first 

From  the  soul  of  the  sage  and  the  patriot  burst,  — 

Where  first  for  fche  wronged  and  the  weak  of  their 
kind, 

The  Christian  and  statesman  their  efforts  com 
bined, — 

Will  that  land  of  the  free  and  the  good  wear  a 
chain  ? 

Will  the  call  to  the  rescue  of  Freedom  be  vain  ? 

No,  RITNER! — her   "Friends"  at  thy  warning 

shall  stand 

Erect  for  the  truth,  like  their  ancestral  band  ; 
Forgetting  the  feuds  and  the  strife  of  past  time, 
Counting  coldness  injustice,  and  silence  a  crime  ; 
Turning  back  from  the  cavil  of  creeds,  to  unite 
Once  again  for  the  poor  in  defence  of  the  Right ; 
Breasting  calmly,  but  firmly,  the  full  tide  of 

Wrong, 

Overwhelmed,  but  not  borne  on  its  surges  along  ; 
Unappalled  by  the  danger,  the  shame,  and  the 

pain, 
And  counting  each  trial  for  Truth  as  their  gain ! 

And  that  bold-hearted  yeomanry,    honest   and 

true, 

Who,  haters  of  fraud,  give  to  labor  its  due  ; 
Whose  fathers,  of  old,  sang  in  concert  with  thine, 
On  the  banks  of  Swetara,  the  songs  of  the  Rhine, — 
The  German-born  pilgrims,  who  first  dared   to 

brave 
The  scorn  of  the  proud  in  the  cause    of    the 

slave : — 


40 


THE  PASTORAL  LETTER. 


Will  the  sons  of  such  men  yield  tho  lords  of  the 

South 
One    brow  for   the  brand, — for  the  padlock  one 

mouth  ? 

They  cater  to  tyrants  ? — They  rivet  the  chain, 
Which  their  fathers  smote  oft',  on  the  negro  again  V 

No,   never ! — one  voice,   like  the    sound  in  the 

cloud, 
When  the  roar  of  the  storm  waxes  loud  and  more 

loud, 

Wherever  the  foot  of  the  freeman  hath  pressed 
From  the  Delaware's  marge  to  the  Lake  of  the 

West, 

On  the  South-going  breezes  shall  deepen  and  grow 
Till  the  land  it  sweeps  over  shall  tremble  below  ! 
The  voice  of  a  PEOPLE, — uprisen, — awake, — 
Pennsylvania's    watchword,    with     Freedom    at 

stake, 
Thrilling  up  from  each  valley,  flung  down  from 

each  height, 
"  OUR  COUNTKY  AND  LIBERTY  ! — GOD  FOR  THE 

RIGHT  ! " 


THE  PASTORAL  LETTER. 

So,  this  is  all, — the  utmost  reach 

Of  priestly  power  the  mind  to  fetter  ! 
When  laymen  think — when  women  preach — 

A  war  of  words— a  "Pastoral  Letter  !  " 
Now,  shame  upon  ye,  parish  Popes  ! 

Was  it  thus  with  those,  your  predecessors, 
Who  sealed  with  racks,  and  fire,  and  ropes 

Their  loving -kindness  to  transgressors  ? 

A  "  Pastoral  Letter,"  grave  and  dull — 

Alas  !  in  hoof  and  horns  and  features, 
How  different  is  your  Brookrield  bull, 

From  him  who  bellows  from  St.  Peter's  ! 
Your  pastoral  rights  and  powers  from  harm, 

Think  ye,  can  words  alone  preserve  them  V 
Your  wiser  fathers  taught  the  arm 

And  sword  of  temporal  power  to  serve  them. 

O,  glorious  days, — when  Church  and  State 

Were  wedded  by  your  spiritual  fathers  ! 
And  on  submissive  shoulders  sat 

Your  Wilsons  and  your  Cotton  Mathers. 
No  vile  "itinerant  "  then  could  mar 

The  beauty  of  your  tranquil  Zion, 
But  at  his  peril  of  the  scar 

Of  hangman's  whip  and  branding-iron. 

Then,  wholesome  laws  relieved  the  Church 

Of  heretic  and  mischief-maker, 
And  priest  and  bailiff-joined  in  search, 

By  turns,  of  Papist,  witch,  and  Quaker  ! 
The  stocks  were  at  each  church's  door, 

The  gallows  stood  on  Boston  Common, 
A  Papist's  ears  the  pillory  bore, — 

The  gallows-rope,  a  Quaker  woman  ! 

Your  fathers  dealt  not  as  ye  deal 

With  "non-professing"  frantic  teachers; 
They  bored  the  tongue  with  red-hot  steel, 

And  flayed  the  backs  of  "  female  preachers." 
Old  Newbury,  had  her  fields  a  tongue,* 

And  Salem' s  streets  could  tell  their  story, 
Of  fainting  woman  dragged  along, 

Gashed  by  the  whip,  accursed  and  gory  ! 

And  will  ye  ask  me,  why  this  taunt 
Of  memories  sacred  from  the  scorner  ? 

And  why  with  reckless  hand  I  plant 
A  nettle  on  the  graves  ye  honor  ? 

Not  to  reproach  New  England's  dead 
This  record  from  the  past  I  summon, 


Of  manhood  to  the  scaffold  led, 
And  suffering  and  heroic  woman. 

No, — for  yourselves  alone,  I  turn 

The  pages  of  intolerance  over, 
That,  in  their  spirit,  dark  and  stern, 

Ye  haply  may  your  own  discover  ! 
For,  if  ye  claim  the  "  pastoral  right," 

To  silence  Freedom's  voice  of  warning, 
And  from  your  precincts  shut  the  light 

Of  Freedom's  day  around  ye  dawning ; 

If  when  an  earthquake  voice  of  power, 

And  signs  in  earth  and  heaven,  are  showing 
That  forth,  in  its  appointed  hour, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  going  ! 
And,  with  that  Spirit,  Freedom's  light 

On  kindred,  tongue,  and  people  breaking, 
Whose  slumbering  millions,  at  the  sight, 

In  glory  and  in  strength  are  waking  ! 

When  for  the  sighing  of  the  poor. 

And  for  the  needy,  God  hath  risen, 
And  chains  are  breaking,  and  a  door 

Is  opening  for  the  souls  in  prison  ! 
If  then  ye  would,  with  puny  hands, 

Arrest  the  very  work  of  Heaven, 
And  bind  anew  the  evil  bands 

Which  God's  right  arm  of  power  hath  riven,— 

What  marvel  that,  in  many  a  mind, 

Those  darker  deeds  of  bigot  madness 
Are  closely  with  your  own  combined, 

Yet  "less  in  anger  than  in  sadness  "  ? 
What  marvel,  if  the  people  learn 

To  claim  the  right  of  free  opinion  ? 
What  marvel,  if  at  times  they  spurn 

The  ancient  yoke  of  your  dominion  ? 

A  glorious  remnant  linger  yet, 

Whose  lips  are  wet  at  Freedom's  fountains, 
The  coming  of  whose  welcome  feet 

Is  beautiful  upon  our  mountains  ! 
Men,  who  the  gospel  tidings  bring 

Of  Liberty  and  Love  forever, 
Whose  joy  is  an  abiding  spring, 

Whose  peace  is  as  a  gentle  river  ! 

But  ye,  who  scorn  the  thrilling  tale 

Of  Carolina's  high-souled  daughters, 
Which  echoes  here  the  mournful  wail 

Of  sorrow  from  Edisto's  waters, 
Close  while  ye  may  the  public  ear, — - 

With  malice  vex,  with  slander  wound  them, — 
The  pure  and  good  shall  throng  to  hear, 

And  tried  and  manly  hearts  surround  them. 

O,  ever  may  the  power  which  led 

Their  way  to  such  a  fiery  trial, 
And  strengthened  womanhood  to  tread 

The  wine-press  of  such  self-denial, 
Be  round  them  in  an  evil  land, 

With  wisdom  and  with  strength  from  Heaven. 
With  Miriam's  voice,  and  Judith's  hand, 

And  Deborah's  song,  for  triumph  given  ! 

And  what  are  ye  who  strive  with  God 

Against  the  ark  of  his  salvation, 
Moved  by  the  breath  of  prayer  abroad, 

With  blessings  for  a  dying  nation? 
What,  but  the  stubble  and  the  hay 

To  perish,  even  as  flax  consuming, 
With  all  that  bars  his  glorious  way, 

Before  the  brightness  of  his  coming  ? 

And  thou,  sad  Angel,  who  so  long 
Hast  waited  for  the  glorious  token, 

That  Earth  from  all  her  bonds  of  wrong 
To  liberty  and  light  has  broken, — 


LINES. 


4? 


Anejel  of  Freedom  !  soon  to  thee 
The  sounding  trumpet  shall  be  given, 

And  over  Earth's  fall  jubilee 

Shall  deeper  joy  Le  felt  in  Heaven  ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  ANTI- 
SLAVER  V  SOCIETY,  AT  CHATHAM  STREET  CHAP 
EL,  N.  V.,  HELD  ON  THE  4TII  OF  THE  7'TII  MONTH, 

1834. 

O  THOU,  whose  presence  went  before 
Our  fathers  in  their  weary  way, 

As  with  thy  chosen  moved  of  yore 
The  fire  by  night,  the  cloud  by  day  ! 

When  from  each  temple  of  the  free, 
A  nation's  song  ascends  to  Heaven, 

Most  Holy  Father  !   unto  thee 

May  not  our  humble  prayer  be  given? 

Thy  children  all, — though  hue  and  form 
Are  varied  in  thine  own  good  will, — 

With  thy  own  holy  breathings  warm, 
And  fashioned  in  thine  image  still. 

We  thank  thee,  Father  !— hill  and  plain 
Around  us  wave  their  fruits  once  more, 

And  clustered  vine,  and  blossomed  grain, 
Are  bending  round  each  cottage  door. 

And  peace  is  here  ;  and  hope  and  love 
Are  round  us  as  a  mantle  thrown, 

And  unto  Th-e,  supreme  above, 
The  knee  of  prayer  is  bowed  alone. 

But  O,  for  those  this  day  can  bring, 

As  unto  us,  no  joyful  thrill, — 
For  those  who,  under  Freedom's  wing, 

Are  bound  in  Slavery's  fetters  still : 

For  those  to  whom  thy  living  word 
Of  light  and  love  is  never  given, — 

For  those  whose  ears  have  never  heard 
The  promise  and  the  hope  of  Heaven  ! 

For  broken  heart,  and  clouded  mind, 
Whereon  no  human  mercies  fall, — 

O,  be  thy  gracious  love  inclined. 
Who,  as  a  Father,  pitiest  all ! 

And  grant,  O  Father  !  that  the  time 
Of  Earth's  deliverance  may  be  near, 

When  every  land  and  tongue  and  clime 
The  message  of  thy  love  shall  hear, — 

When,  smitten  as  with  fire  from  heaven, 
The  captive's  chain  shall  sink  in  dust, 

And  to  his  fettered  soul  be  given 
The  glorious  freedom  of  the  just  ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   FOR   THE   CELEBRATION   OF   THE  THIRD 
ANNIVERSARY   OF    BRITISH    EMANCIPATION    AT  j 
THE    BROADWAY    TABERNACLE,    N.    Y.,    u  FIRST 
OF   AUGUST,"  1837. 


O  HOLY  FATHER  !— just  and  true 

Are  all  thy  works  and  words  and  ways, 
And  unto  thee  alone  are  due 

Thanksgiving  and  eternal  praise  ! 
As  children  of  thy  gracious  care, 

We  veil  the  eye,  we  bend  the  knee, 
With  broken  words  of  praise  and  prayer, 

Father  and  God,  we  come  to  thee. 


For  thou  hast  heard,  O  God  of  Right, 

The  sighing  cf  the  island  slave  ; 
And  stretched  for  him  the  arm  of  might, 

Not  shortened  that  it  could  not  save. 
The  laborer  sits  beneath  his  vine, 

The  shackled  soul  and  hand  are  free, — 
Thanksgiving  ! — for  the  work  is  thine  ! 

Praise  ! — for  the  blessing  is  of  thee  ! 

And  O,  we  feel  thy  presence  here, — 

Thy  awful  arm  in  judgment  bare  ! 
Thine  eye  hath  seen  the  bondman's  tear, — 

Thine  ear  hath  heard  the  bondman's  prayer. 
Praise  ! — for  the  pride  of  man  is  low, 

The  counsels  of  the  wise  are  naught, 
The  fountains  of  repentance  flow  ; 

What  hath  our  God  in  mercy  wrought  ? 

Speed  on  thy  work,  Lord  God  of  Hosts  ! 

And  when  the  bondman's  chain  is  riven, 
And  swells  from  all  our  guilty  coasts 

The  anthem  of  the  free  to  Heaven, 
O,  not  to  those  whom  thou  hast  led, 

As  with  thy  cloud  and  fire  before, 
But  unto  thee,  in  fear  and  dread, 

Be  praise  and  glory  evermore. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN    FOR    THE    ANNIVERSARY    CELEBRATION 
OF  THE  FIRST   OF  AUGUST,    AT   MILTON,    1846. 

A  FEW  brief  years  have  passed  away 

Since  Britain  drove  her  million  slaves 
Beneath  the  tropic's  fiery  ray  : 
God  willed  their  freedom  ;    and  to-day 
Life  blooms  above  those  island  graves  ! 

He  spoke  !  across  the  Carib  Sea, 

We  heard  the  clash  of  breaking  chains, 

And  felt  the  heart-throb  of  the  free, 

The  first,  strong  puls"e  of  liberty 

Which  thrilled  along  the  bondman's  veins. 

Though  long  delayed,  and  far,  and  slow, 

The  Briton's  triumph  shall  be  ours  : 
Wears  slavery  here  a  prouder  brow 
Than  that  which  twelve  short  years  ago 
Scowled  darkly  from  her  island  bowers  ? 

Mighty  alike  for  good  or  ill 

With  mother-land,  we  fully  share 

The  Saxon  strength, — the  nerve  of  steel, — 

The  tireless  energy  of  will, — 
The  power  to  do,  the  pride  to  dare. 

What  she  has  done  can  we  not  do  ? 

Our  hour  and  men  are  both  at  hand  ; 
The  blast  which  Freedom's  angel  blew 
O'er  her  green  islands,  echoes  through 

Each  valley  of  our  forest  land. 

Hear  it,  old  Europe  !  we  have  sworn 

The  death  of  slavery. —When  it  falls, 
Look  to  your  vassals  in  their  turn, 
Your  poor  dumb  millions,  crushed  and  worn, 
Your  prisons  and  your  palace  walls  ! 

O  kingly  mockers  ! — scoffing  show 

What  deeds  in  Freedom's  name  we  do ; 
Yet  know  that  every  taunt  ye  throw 
Across  the  waters,  goads  our  slow 

Progression  towards  the  right  and  true. 

Not  always  shall  your  outraged  poor, 
Appalled  by  democratic  crime, 


48 


LINES.— THE  FAREWELL 


"  Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone." 


Grind  as  their  fathers  ground  before, — 
The  hour  which  sees  our  prison  door 
Swing  wide  shall  be  their  triumph  time. 

On  then,  my  brothers  !  every  blow 

Ye  deal  is  felt  the  wide  earth  through  • 
Whatever  here  uplifts  the  low 
Or  humbles  Freedom's  hateful  foe, 
Blesses  the  Old  World  through  the  New. 

Take    heart !      The    promised  hour  draws 
near, — 

I  hear  the  downward  beat  of  wings, 
And  Freedom's  trumpet  sounding  clear  : 
"Joy  to  the  people ;  woe  and  fear 

To  new-world  tyrants,  old-world  kings  !  " 


THE  FAREWELL 

OP  A  VIRGINIA  SLAVE  MOTHER  TO  HER  DAUGH 
TERS  SOLD  INTO  SOUTHERN  BONDAGE. 

GONE,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 
Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 
Where  the  fever  demon  strews 
Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 
Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 
Through  the  hot  and  misty  air, — 
Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 


Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them, 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 
Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
O,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 
Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again, 
There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet  them,- 
There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 
Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play,— 
From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank, — 
Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank, — 
From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 
And  the  holy  counsels  there, — 
Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 


THE  MORAL  WARFARE.— THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION. 


Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice -swamp  dank  and  lone, — 
Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 
And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 
O  that  they  had  earlier  died, 
Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 
Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 
And  the  fetter  galls  no  more  ! 
Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gome,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth, — 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth, — 
O,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  kriown, 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 
With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 
Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hilla  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 


se, 


THE  MORAL  WARFARE. 

WHEN  Freedom,  on  her  natal  day, 

Within  her  war-rocked  cradle  lay, 

An  iron  race  around  her  stood, 

Baptized  her  infant  brow  in  blood  ; 

And,  through  the  storm  which  round  her  swept, 

Their  constant  ward  and  watching  kept. 

Then,  where  our  quiet  herds  repo 
The  roar  of  baleful  battle  rose, 
And  brethren  of  a  common  tongue 
To  mortal  strife  as  tigers  sprung, 
And  every  gift  on  Freedom's  shrine 
Was  man  for  beast,  and  blood  for  wine  ! 

Our  fathers  to  their  graves  have  gone  ; 
Their  strife  is  past, — their  triumph  won  ; 
But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 
Which  rises  in  their  honored  place, — 


A  moral  warfare  with  the  crime 
And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 

So  let  it  be.     In  God's  own  might 

We  gird  us  for  the  coming  fight, 

And,  strong  in  Him  whose  cause  is  ours 

In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 

We  grasp  the  weapons  He  has  given, — 

The  Light,  and  Truth,  and  Love  of  Heaven. 


THE  WORLD'-S  CONVENTION 

OF    THE    FRIENDS    OF    EMANCIPATION,    HELD    IN 
LONDON   IN   1340. 

YES,  let  them  gather  ! — Summon  forth 
The  pledged  philanthropy  of  Earth, 
From  every  land,  whose  hills  have  heard 

The  bugle  blast  of  Freedom  waking ; 
Or  shrieking  of  her  symbol-bird 

From  out  his  cloudy  eyrie  breaking  : 
Where  Justice  hath  one  worshipper, 
Or  truth  one  altar  built  to  her ; 
Where'er  a  human  eye  is  weeping 

O'er  wrongs  which  Earth's  sad  children  know, — 
Where'er  a  single  heart  is  keeping 

Its  prayerful  watch  with  human  woe  : 
Thence  let  them  come,  and  greet  each  other, 
And  know  in  each  a  friend  and  brother  ! 

Yes,  let  them  come  !  from  each  green  vale 

Where  England's  old  baronial  halls 

Still  bear  upon  their  storied  walls 
The  grim  crusader's  rusted  mail, 
Battered  by  Paynim  spear  and  brand 
On  Malta's  rock  or  Syria's  sand  ! 
And  mouldering  pennon- staves  once  set 

Within  the  soil  of  Palestine, 
By  Jordan  and  Genesaret ; 

Or,  borne  with  England's  battle  line, 
O'er  Acre's  shattered  turrets  stooping. 
Or,  midst  the  camp  their  banners  drooping, 

With  dews  from  hallowed  Hermon  wet, 
A  holier  summons  now  is  given 

Than  that  gray  hermit's  voice  of  old, 


;  On  Malta's  rock. 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION. 


Which  unto  all  the  winds  of  heaven 

The  banners  of  the  Cross  unrolled  ! 
Not  for  the  long-deserted  shrine, — 

Not  for  the  dull  unconscious  sod, 
Which  tells  not  by  one  lingering  siern 

That  there  the  hope  of  Israel  trod  ; — 
But  for  that  TRUTH,  for  which  alone 

In  pilgrim  eyes  are  sanctified 
The  garden  moss,  the  mountain  stone, 
Whereon  his  holy  sandals  pressed, — 
The  fountain  which  his  lip  hath  blessed, — 
Whate'er  hath  touched  his  garment's  hem 
At  Bethany  or  Bethlehem, 

Or  Jordan's  river-side. 
For  FREEDOM,  in  the  name  of  Him 

Who  came  to  raise  Earth's  drooping  poor, 
To  break  the  chain  from  every  limb, 

The  bolt  from  every  prison  door  ! 
For  these,  o'er  all  the  earth  hath  passed 
An  ever-deepening  trumpet  blast, 
As  if  an  angel's  breath  had  lent 
Its  vigor  to  the  instrument. 

And  Wales,  from  Snowden's  mountain  wall, 
Shall  startle  at  that  thriljing  call, 

As  if  she  heard  her  bards  again  ; 
And  Erin's  "  harp  on  Tara's  wall " 

Give  out  its  ancient  strain, 
Mirthful  and  sweet,  yet  sad  withal, — 

The  melody  which  Erin  loves, 
When  o'er  that  harp,  'mid  bursts  of  gladness 
And  slogan  cries  and  lyke-wake  sadness, 

The  hand  of  her  O'Connell  moves  ! 
Scotland,  from  lake  and  tarn  and  rill, 
And  mountain  hold,  and  heathery  hill, 

Shall  catch  and  echo  back  the  note, 
As  if  shg  heard  upon  her  air 
Once  more  her  Cameronian's  prayer 

And  song  of  Freedom  float. 
And  cheering  echoes  shall  reply 
From  each  remote  dependency, 
Where  Britain's  mighty  sway  is  known, 
In  tropic  sea  or  frozen  zone ; 
Where'er  her  sunset  flag  is  furling, 
Or  morning  gun-fire's  smoke  is  curling ; 
From  Indian  Bengal's  groves  of  palm 
And  rosy  fields  and  gales  of  balm, 
Where  Eastern  pomp  and  power  are  rolled 
Through  regal  Ava's  gates  of  gold  ; 
And  from  the  lakes  and  ancient  woods 
And  dim  Canadian  solitudes, 
Whence,  sternly  from  her  rocky  throne, 
Queen  of  the  North,  Quebec  looks  down  ; 
And  from  those  bright  and  ransomed  Isles 
Where  all  unwonted  Freedom  smiles, 
And  the  dark  laborer  still  retains 
The  scar  of  slavery's  broken  chains  ! 

From  the  hoar  Alps,  which  sentinel 
The  gateways  of  the  land  of  Tell, 
Where  morning's  keen  and  earliest  glance 

On  Jura's  rocky  wall  is  thrown, 
And  from  the  olive  bowers  of  France 

And  vine  groves  garlanding  the  Rhone, — 
"Friends  of  the  Blacks,"  as  true  and  tried 
As  those  who  stood  by  Oge's  side, 
And  heard  the  Haytien's  tale  of  wrong, 
Shall  gather  at  that  summons  strong,— 
Broglie,  Passy,  and  him  whose  song 
Breathed  over  Syria's  holy  sod, 
And  in  the  paths  which  Jesus  trod, 
And  murmured  midst  the  hills  which  hem 
Crownless  and  sad  Jerusalem, 
Hath  echoes  whereso'er  the  tone 
Of  Israel's  prophet-lyre  is  known. 

Still  let  them  come,  —from  Quito's  walls, 

And  from  the  Orinoco's  tide, 
From  Lima's  Inca-haunted  halls, 


From  Santa  Fe  and  Yucatan, — 

Men  who  by  swart  Guerrero's  side 
Proclaimed  the  deathless  RIGHTS  OF  MAN, 

Broke  every  bond  and  fetter  oft', 

And  hailed  in  every  sable  serf 
A  free  and  brother  Mexican  ! 
Chiefs  who  across  the  Andes'  chain 

Have  followed  Freedom's  flowing  pennon, 
And  seen  on  Junin's  fearful  plain, 
Glare  o'er  the  broken  ranks  of  Spain 

The  fire-burst  of  Bolivar's  cannon  ! 
And  Hayti,  from  her  mountain  land, 

Shall  send  the  sons  of  those  who  hurled 
Defiance  from  her  blazing  strand, — 
The  war-gage  from  her  Petion's  hand, 

Alone  against  a  hostile  world. 

Nor  all  unmindful,  thou,  the  while, 
Land  of  the  dark  and  mystic  Nile  ! — 

Thy  Moslem  mercy  yet  may  shame 

All  tyrants  of  a  Christian  name, — 
When  in  the  shade  of  Gizeh's  pile, 
Or,  where  from  Abyssinian  hills 
El  Gerek's  upper  fountain  fills, 
Or  where  from  Mountains  of  the  Moon 
El  Abiad  bears  his  watery  boon, 
Where'er  thy  lotus  blossoms  swim 

Within  their  ancient  hallowed  waters, — 
Where'er  is  heard  the  Coptic  hymn, 

Or  song  of  Nubia's  sable  daughters, — 
j  The  curse  of  SLAVERY  and  the  crime, 
I  Thy  bequest  from  remotest  time, 
j  At  thy  dark  Mehemet's  decree 
Forevermore  shall  pass  from  thee ; 

And  chains  forsake  each  captive's  limb 
Of  all  those  tribes,  whose  hills  around 
Have  echoed  back  the  cymbal  sound 

And  victor  horn  of  Ibrahim. 

And  thou  whose  glory  and  whose  crime 
I  To  earth's  remotest  bound  and  clime, 
j  In  mingled  tones  of  awe  and  scorn, 
1  The  echoes  of  a  world  have  borne, 
!  My  country  !  glorious  at  thy  birth, 
I  A  day-star  flashing  brightly  forth, — 

The  herald-sign  of  Freedom's  dawn  ! 
O,  who  could  dream  that  saw  thee  then, 

And  watched  thy  rising  from  afar, 
That  vapors  from  oppression's  fen 

Would  cloud  the  upward  tending  star  ? 
Or,  that  earth's  tyrant  powers,  which  heard, 
Awe-struck,  the  shout  which  hailed  thy  dawn 
ing, 

Would  rise  so  soon,  prince,  peer,  and  king, 
To  mock  thee  with  their  welcoming, 
Like  Hades  when  her  thrones  were  stirred 
To  greet  the  down-cast  Star  of  Morning  ! 
"  Aha  !  and  art  thou  fallen  thus  ? 
Art  THOU  become  asone  of  us?  " 

Land  of  my  fathers  ! — there  will  stand, 
Amidst  that  world-assembled  band, 
Those  owning  thy  maternal  claim 
Un weakened  by  thy  crime  and  shame, — 
The  sad  reprovers  of  thy  wrong, — 
The  children  thou  hast  spurned  so  long. 
Still  with  affection's  fondest  yearning 
To  their  unnatural  mother  turning. 
No  traitors  they  ! — but  tried  and  leal, 
Whose  own  is  but  thy  general  weal, 
Still  blending  with  the  patriot's  zeal 
The  Christian's  love  for  human  kind, 
To  caste  and  climate  unconfined. 

A  holy  gathering ! — peaceful  all : 
No  threat  of  war, — no  savage  call 

For  vengeance  on  an  erring  brother  ! 
But  in  their  stead  the  godlike  plan 
To  teach  the  brotherhood  of  man 

To  love  and  reverence  one  another, 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE.— THE  NEW  YEAR. 


As  sharers  of  a  common  blood, 
The  children  of  a  common  God  ! — 
Yet,  even  at  its  lightest  word, 
Shall  Slavery's  darkest  depths  be  stirred  : 
Spain,  watching  from  her  Moro's  keep 
Her  slave-ships  traversing  the  deep, 
And  Rio,  in  her  strength  and  pride, 
Lifting,  along  her  mountain-side, 
Her  snowy  battlements  and  towers, — 
Her  lemon-groves  arid  tropic  bowers, 
With  bitter  hate  and  sullen  fear 
Its  freedom-giving  voice  shall  hear  ; 
And  where  my  country's  flag  is  flowing, 
On  breezes  from  Mount  Vernon  blowing 

Above  the  Nation's  council-halls, 
Where  Freedom's  praise  is  loud  and  long, 

While  close  beneath  the  outward  walls 
The  driver  plies  his  reeking  thong, — 

The  hammer  of  the  man-thief  falls, 
O'er  hypocritic  cheek  and  brow 
The  crimson  flush  of  shame  shall  glow  : 
And  all  who  for  their  native  land 
Are  pledging  life  and  heart  and  hand, — 
Worn  watchers  o'er  her  changing  weal, 
Who  for  her  tarnished  honor  feel, — 
Through  cottage  door  and  council-hall 
Shall  thunder  an  awakening  call. 
The  pen  along  its  page  shall  burn 
With  all  intolerable  scorn, — 
An  eloquent  rebuke  shall  go 
On  all  the  winds  that  Southward  blow, — 
From  priestly  lips,  now  sealed  and  dumb, 
Warning  and  dread  appeal  shall  come. 
Like  those  which  Israel  heard  from  him, 
The  Prophet  of  the  Cherubim,— 
Or  those  which  sad  Esaias  hurled 
Against  a  sin-accursed  world  ! 
Its  wizard  leaves  the  Press  shxll  fling 
Unceasing  from  its  iron  wing, 
With  characters  inscribed  thereon, 

As  fearful  in  the  despot's  hall 
As  to  the  pomp  of  Babylon 

The  fire-sign  on  the  palace  wall ! 
And,  from  her  dark  iniquities, 
Methinks  I  see  my  country  risa  : 
Not  challenging  the  nations  round 

To  nota  her  tardy  justice  done, — 
Her  captives  from  their  chains  unbound, 

Her  prisons  opening  to  the  sun  : — 
But  tearfully  her  arms  extending 
Over  the  poor  and  unoffending  ; 

Her  regal  emblem  now  no  longer 
A  bird  of  prey,  with  talons  reeking, 
Above  the  dying  captive  shrieking, 
But,  spreading  out  her  ample  wing, — 
A  broad,  impartial  covering, — 

The  weaker  sheltered  by  the  stronger  ! — 
O,  then  to  Faith's  anointed  eyes 

The  promised  token  shall  be  given  ; 
And  on  a  nation's  sacrifice, 
Atoning  for  the  sin  of  years, 
And  wet  with  penitential  tears, — 

The  lire  shall  fall  from  Heaven  ! 
1839. 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

1845. 


To  all  his  biddings,  from  her  mountain  ranges, 
New  Hampshire  thunders  an  indignant  No  ! 

Who  is  it  now  despairs  ?     O,  faint  of  heart, 

Look  upward  to  those  Northern  mountains  cold, 

Flouted  by  Freedom's  victor-flag  unrolled, 

!  And  gather  strength  to  bear  a  manlier  part ! 

All  is  not  lost.     The  angel  of  God's  blessing 

Encamps  with  Freedom  on  the  field  of  fight ; 
Still  to  her  banner,  day  by  day,  are  pressing, 
Unlooked-for  allies,  striking  for  tiie  right ! 
Courage,    then,    Northern  hearts. — Be  firm,    be 

true  : 

I  What  one  brave  State  hath  done,  can  ye  not  also 
do? 


GOD  bless  New  Hampshire ! — from  her  granite 

peaks 

Once  more  the  voice  of  Stark  and  Langdon  speaks. 
The  long-bound  vassal  of  ths  exulting  South 

For  very  shame  her  self-forged  chain  has  bro 
ken, — 
Torn  the  black  seal  of  slavery  from  her  mouth, 

And  in  the  clear  tones  of  her  old  time  spoken  ! 
O,  all  undreamed-of,  all  unhoped-for  changes  ! —  j 

The  tyrant's  ally  proves  his  sternest  foe  ; 


THE  NEW  YEAR: 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  PATHONS  OF  THE  PENNSYL 
VANIA.  FHEEMAN. 

THE  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore,— 
The  echo  fading  from  the  chime, — 

Again  the  shadow  moveth  o'er 
The  dial-plate  of  time ! 

O,  seer-seen  Angel !  waiting  now 
With  weary  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 

Impatient  for  the  last  dread  vow 
That  time  shall  be  no  more  ! 

Once  more  across  thy  sleepless  eye 
The  semblance  of  a  smile  has  passed  : 

The  year  departing  leaves  more  nigh 
Time's  fearf ullest  and  last. 

O,  in  that  dying  year  hath  been 
The  sum  of  all  since  time  began, — 

The  birth  and  death,  the  joy  and  pain, 
Of  Nature  and  of  Man.' 

Spring,  with  her  change  of  sun  and  shower, 
And  streams  released  from  Winter's  chain, 

And  bursting  bud,  and  opening  flower, 
And  greenly  growing  grain  ; 

And  Summer's  shade,  and  sunshine  warm, 
And  rainbows  o'er  her  hill-tops  bowed, 

And  voices  in  her  rising  storm, — 
God  speaking  from  his  cloud  ! — 

And  Autumn's  fruits  and  clustering  sheaves, 
And  soft,  warm  days  of  golden  light,. 

The  glory  of  her  forest  leaves, 
And  harvest-moon  at  night ; 

And  Winter  with  her  leafless  grove, 

And  prisoned  stream,  and  drifting  snow, 

The  brilliance  of  her  heaven  above 
And  of  her  earth  below  : — 

And  man, — in  whom  an  angel's  mind 
With  earth's  low  instincts  finds  abode, — 

The  highest  of  the  links  which  bind 
Brute  nature  to  her  God  ; 

His  infant  eye  hath  seen  the  light, 

His  childhood's  merriest  laughter  rung, 

And  active  sports  to  manlier  might 
The  nerves  of  boyhood  strung  ! 


And  quiet  love,  and  passion's  fires, 
Have  soothed  or  burned  in  manh 


manhood's  breast, 


And  lofty  aims  and  low  desires 
By  turns  disturbed  his  rest. 

The  wailing  of  the  newly -born 

Has  mingled  with  the  funeral  knell ; 

And  o'er  the  dying's  ear  has  gone 
The  merry  marriage-bell. 


THE  NEW  YEAR.— MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA. 


And  Wealth  has  filled  his  halls  with  mirth, 
While  Want,  in  many  a  humble  shed, 

Toiled,  shivering  by  her  cheerless  hearth, 
The  live-long  night  for  bread. 

And  worse  than  all, — the  human  slave, — 
The  sport  of  lust,  and  pride,  and  scorn  ! 

Plucked  off  the  crown  his  Maker  gave, — 
His  regal  manhood  gone  ! 

O,  still,  my  country  !  o'er  thy  plains, 
Blackened  with  slavery's  blight  and  ban, 

That  human  chattel  drags  his  chains, — 
An  uncreated  man ! 

And  still,  where'er  to  sun  and  breeze, 
My  country,  is  thy  flag  unrolled, 

With  scorn,  the  gazing  stranger  sees 
A  stain  on  every  fold. 

O,  tear  the  gorgeous  emblem  down  ! 

It  gathers  scorn  from  every  eye, 
And  despots  smile  and  good  men  frown 

Whene'er  it  passes  by. 

Shame  !  shame  !  its  starry  splendors  glow 
Above  the  slaver's  loathsome  jail, — 

Its  folds  are  ruffling  even  now 
His  crimson  flag  of  sale. 

Still  round  our  country's  proudest  hall 
The  trade  in  human  flesh  is  driven, 

And  at  each  careless  hammer-fall 
A  human  heart  is  riven. 

And  this,  too,  sanctioned  by  the  men 
Vested  with  power  to  shield  the  right, 

And  throw  each  vile  and  robber  den 
Wide  open  to  the  light. 

Yet,  shame  upon  them  !-^there  they  sit, 
Men  of  the  North,  subdued  and  still ; 

Meek,  pliant  poltroons,  only  fit 
To  work  a  master's  will. 

Sold, — bargained  off  for  Southern  votes, — 
A  passive  herd  of  Northern  mules, 

Just  braying  through  their  purchased  throats 
Whate'er  their  owner  rules. 

And  he,35 — the  basest  of  the  base, 
The  vilest  of  the  vile, — whose  name, 

Embalmed  in  infinite  disgrace, 
Is  deathless  in  its  shame  ! — 

A  tool, — to  bolt  the  people's  door 
Against  the  people  clamoring  there, 

An  ass, — to  trample  on  their  floor 
A  people's  right  of  prayer  ! 

Nailed  to  his  self-made  gibbet  fast, 
Self -pilloried  to  the  public  view, — 

A  mark  for  every  passing  blast 
Of  scorn  to  whistle  through  ; 

There  let  him  hang,  and  hear  the  boast 
Of  Southrons  o'er  their  pliant  tool, — 

A  new  Stylites  on  his  post, 
u  Sacred  to  ridicule  !  " 

Look  we  at  home  ! — our  noble  hall, 
To  Freedom's  holy  purpose  given, 

Now  rears  its  black  and  ruined  wall, 
Beneath  the  wintry  heaven, — 

Telling  the  story  of  its  doom, — 

The  fiendish  mob, — the  prostrate  law, — 

The  fiery  jet  through  midnight's  gloom, 
Our  gazing  thousands  saw. 


Look  to  our  State, — the  poor  man's  right 
Torn  from  him  : — and  the  sons  of  those 

Whose  blood  in  Freedom's  sternest  fight 
Sprinkled  the  Jersey  snows, 

Outlawed  within  the  land  of  Penn, 

That  Slavery's  guilty  fears  might  cease, 

And  those  whom  God  created  men 
Toil  on  as  brutes  in  peace. 

Yet  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  storm 
A  bow  of  promise  bends  on  high, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine,  soft  and  warm, 
Break  through  our  clouded  sky. 

East,  West,  and  North,  the  shout  is  heard, 
Of  freemen  rising  for  the  right : 

Each  valley  hath  its  rallying  word, — 
Each  hill  its  signal  light. 

O'er  Massachusetts'  rocks  of  gray, 

The  strengthening  light  of  freedom  shines, 

Rhode  Island's  Narragansett  Bay, — 
And  Vermont's  snow-hung  pines  ! 

From  Hudson's  frowning  palisades 

To  Allegheny's  laurelled  crest, 
O'er  lakes  and  prairies,  streams  and  glades, 

It  shines  upon  the  West. 

Speed  on  the  light  to  those  who  dwell 
In  Slavery's  land  of  woe  and  sin, 

And  through  the  blackness  of  that  hell, 
Let  Heaven's  own  light  break  in. 

So  shall  the  Southern  conscience  quake 
Before  that  light  poured  full  and  strong, 

So  shall  the  Southern  heart  awake 
To  all  the  bondman's  wrong. 

And  from  that  rich  and  sunny  land 
The  song  of  grateful  millions  rise, 

Like  that  of  Israel's  ransomed  band 
Beneath  Arabia's  skies  : 

And  all  who  now  are  bound  beneath 
Our  banner's  shade,  our  eagle's  wing, 

From  Slavery's  night  of  moral  death 
To  light  and  life  shall  spring. 

Broken  the  bondman's  chain,  and  gone 
The  master's  guilt,  and  hate,  and  fear, 

And  unto  both  alike  shall  dawn 
A  New  and  Happy  Year. 
1889. 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA. 

[Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  proceedings  of 
the  citizens  of  Norfolk,  Va.,  in  reference  to  GEOKGE 
LATIMER,  the  alleged  fugitive  slave,  the  result  of  whose 
case  in  Massachusetts  will  probably  be  similar  to  that  of 
the  negro  SOMERSET  in  England,  in  1772.] 

THE  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon 

its  Southern  way, 
Bears  greeting   to  Virginia  from  Massachusetts 

Bay  : — 
No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle  bugle's 

peal, 
Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor  clang  ot 

horsemen's  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  high 
ways  go, — 
Around  our  silent  arsenals    untrodden   lies   the 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA. 


53 


And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon  their 

errands  far, 
A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but  none  are 

spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia  !  thy  stormy  words 

and  high, 
Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which  melt 

along  our  sky ; 
Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  foregoes  its  honest 

labor  here, 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe 

in  fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along  St. 

George's  bank, — 
Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white 

and  dank ; 
Through  storm,  and  wave,   and  blinding  mist, 

stout  are  the  hearts  which  man 
The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea-boats 

of  Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare  on  their 

icy  forms, 
Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or  wrestling 

with  the  storms ; 
Free  as  the  winds  they  drive,  before,  rough  as  the 

waves  they  roam, 
They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat  against 

their  rocky  home. 

What  means  the  Old  Dominion  ?  Hath  she  for 
got  the  day 

When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the 
Briton's  steel  array  ? 

How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massa 
chusetts  men 

Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout 
Cornwallis,  then  ? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  inanswer  to  the 
call 

Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from 
FaneuilHall? 

When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  puls 
ing  on  each  breath 

Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds  of 
u  LIBERTY  OR  DEATH  !  " 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion  ?    If  now  her  sons 

have  proved 
False  to  their  fathers'  memory, — false  to  the  faith 

they  loved, 
If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great  charter 

spurn, 
Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  truth  and  duty 

turn  ? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Slavery's 
hateful  hell,— 

Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the  blood 
hound's  yell, — 

We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our  fathers' 


graves, 
Fi 


From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear  your 
wretched  slaves  ! 

Thank  God  !  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massachusetts 

bow ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even  now ; 
Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves  slow 

and  calm  and  cool, 
She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a  sister's 

slave  and  tool ! 

All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that  a  free 

State  may, 
Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our  early 

day ; 


But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye  must 

stagger  with  alone, 
And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves 

have  sown  ! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves,  and 

burden  God's  free  air 
With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and  man 

hood's  wild  despair  ; 
Cling  closer  to  the  "cleaving  curse"  that  writes 

upon  your  plans 
The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a  land  of 

chains. 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cavaliers  of 

old, 
By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  human 

flesh  is  sold,  — 
Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,   and  count  his 

market  value,  when 
The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce 

the  slaver's  den  ! 

Lower  than  plummet  soundeth,  sink  the  Virginia 

name; 
Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with  rankest 

weeds  of  shame  ; 
Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  uni 

verse,  — 
We  wash  our  hands  forever  of  your  sin  and  shame 

and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Free 

dom's  shrine  hath  been, 
Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berk 

shire's  mountain  men  : 
The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  linger 

ing  still 
In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept  hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting 

for  his  prey 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's  shaft  of 


How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son,  the  father's 

warning  spoke  ; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  andssct,  the  Pilgrim 

city  broke  ! 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted  up  on 

high,— 
A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their  loud 

Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the  start 

ling  summons  rang, 
And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her 

young  mechanics  sprang  ! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex,  —of  thousands 

as  of  one,  — 
The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  L3xing- 

ton,  — 
From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages,  from  Plymouth's 

rocky  bound 
To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean  close 

her  round  ;  — 

From  rich  and  rural  Worcester,  where  through 

the  calm  repose 
Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the  gentle 

Nashua  flows, 
To  where  Wachuset's  wintry  blasts  the  mountain 

larches  stir, 
Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of  "  God 

save  Latimer  !  " 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the  salt 

sea  spray,  — 
And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Nar- 

ragansett  Bay  ! 


54 


THE  RELIC.— THE  BRANDED  HAND. 


Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampden  felt  the 

thrill, 
And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen  swept 

down  from  Holyoke  Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts !     Of  her  free  sons 

and  daughters, — 
Deep   calling   unto   deep  aloud, — the    sound   of 

many  waters ! 
Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant 

power  shall  stand  ? 
No  fetter*  in  the  Bay  State  !    No  slave  upon  her 

land  ! 

Look  to  4t  well,  Virginians  !     In   calmness  we 

have  borne, 
In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult  and 

your  scorn ; 
You've  spurned  our  kindest   counsels, — you've 

hunted  for  our  lives, — 
And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes  your 

manacles  and  gyves  ! 

We  wage  no  war, — we  lift  no  arm, — we  fling  no 

torch  within 
The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath  your 

soil  of  sin; 
We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle,  while 

ye  can, 
With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and  godlike 

soul  of  man ! 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow  which 

we  have  given 
For    freedom    and    humanity    is    registered    in 

heaven ; 
No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders, — uo  pirate  on  our 

strand! 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State, — no  slave  upon  our 

land  ! 


THE  RELIC. 

[PKNNSYLVANIA.  HALL,  dedicated  to  Free  Discussion 
and  the  cause  of  human  liberty,  was  destroyed  by  a  mob 
in  18o8.  The  following  was  written  on  receiving  a  cane 
wrought  from  a  fragment  of  the  wood- work  which  the 
fire  had  spared.] 

TOKEN  of  friendship  true  and  tried, 
•From  one  whose  fiery  heart  of  youth 

With  mine  has  beaten,  side  by  side, 
For  Liberty  and  Truth  ; 

With  honest  pride  the  gift  I  take, 

And  prize  it  fpr  the  giver's  sake. 

But  not  alone  because  it  tells 

Of  generous  hand  and  heart  sincere  ; 

Around  that  gift  of  friendship  dwells 
A  memory  doubly  dear, — 

Earth's  noblest  aim, — man's  holiest  thought, 

With  that  memorial  frail  inwrought ! 

Pure  thoughts  and  sweet,  like  flowers  unfold, 
And  precious  memories  round  it  cling, 

Even  as  the  Prophet's  rod  of  old 
In  beauty  blossoming : 

And  buds  of  feeling  pure  and  good 

Spring  from  its  cold  unconscious  wood. 

Relic  of  Freedom's  shrine  ! — a  brand 
Plucked  from  its  burning  ! — let  it  be 

Dear  as  a  jewel  from  the  hand 
Of  a  lost  friend  to  me  ! — 

Flower  of  a  perished  garland  left, 

Of  life  and  beauty  unbereft ! 

O,  if  the  young  enthusiast  bears, 
O'er  weary  waste  and  sea,  the  stone 

Which  crumbled  from  the  Forum's  stairs, 
Or  round  the  Parthenon  ; 


Or  olive-bough  from  some  wild  tree 
Hung  over  old  Thermopylae  : 

If  leaflets  from  some  hero's  tomb, 

Or  moss-wreath  torn  from  ruins  hoary, — 

Or  faded  flowers  whose  sisters  bloom 
On  fields  renowned  in  story, — 

Or  fragment  from  the  Alhambra's  crest, 

Or  the  gray  rock  by  Druids  blessed  ; 

Sad  Erin's  shamrock  greenly  growing 
Where  Freedom  led  her  stalwart  kern, 

Or  Scotia's  kt  rough  bur  thistle  "  blowing 
On  Bi'uce's  Bannockburn, — 

Or  Runnymede's  wild  English  rose, 

Or  lichen  plucked  from  Sempach's  snows  ! — 

If  it  be  true  that  things  like  these 

To  heart  and  eye  bright  visions  bring, 

Shall  not  far  holier  memories 
To  this  memorial  cling  ? 

Which  needs  no  mellowing  mist  of  time 

To  hide  the  crimson  stains  of  crime  ! 

Wreck  of  a  temple,  unprofaned, — 

Of  courts  where  Peace  with  Freedom  trod, 

Lifting  on  high,  with  hands  unstained, 
Thanksgiving  unto  God ; 

Where  Mercy's  voice  of  love  was  pleading 

For  human  hearts  in  bondage  bleeding  ! — 

Where,  midst  the  sound  of  rushing  feet 
And  curses  on  the  night-air  flung, 

That  pleading  voice  rose  calm  and  sweet 
From  woman's  earnest  tongue  ; 

And  Riot  turned  his  scowling  glance, 

Awed,  from  her  tranquil  countenance  ! 

That  temple  now  in  ruin  lies  ! — 
The  fire-stain  on  its  shattered  wall, 

And  open  to  the  changing  skies 
Its  black  and  roofless  hall, 

It  stands  before  a  nation's  sight, 

A  gravestone  over  buried  Right ! 

But  from  that  ruin,  as  of  old, 

The  fire-scorched  stones  themselves  are  crying 
And  from  their  ashes  white  and  cold 

Its  timbers  are  replying  ! 
A  voice  which  slavery  cannot  kill 
Speaks  from  the  crumbling  arches  still ! 

And  even  this  relic  from  thy  shrine, 

O  holy  Freedom  !  hath  to  me 
A  potent  power,  a  voice  and  sign 

To  testify  of  thee  ; 
And,  grasping  it,  methinks  I  feel 
A  deeper  faith,  a  stronger  zeal. 

And  not  unlike  that  mystic  rod, 

Of  old  stretched  o'er  the  Egyptian  wave, 

Which  opened,  in  the  strengtn  of  God, 
A  pathway  for  the  slave, 

It  yet  may  point  the  bondman's  way, 

And  turn  the  spoiler  from  his  prey. 


THE  BRANDED  HAND. 

1846. 

WELCOME  home  again,  brave  seaman  !   with  thy 

thoughtful  brow  and  gray, 
And  the  old  heroic  spirit  of  our  eaiiierr  better 

day, — 
With  that  front  ef  calm  endurance,  on  whose 

steady  nerve  in  vain 
Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the  fiery 

shafts  of  pain  ! 


THE  BRANDED  HAND.— TEXAS. 


Is  the  tyrant's  brand  upon  thee  ? 
cravens  aim 


To  make  God's  truth  thy  falsehood,  his  holiest 

work  thy  shame  ? 
When,  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  torture  the 

iron  was  withdrawn, 
How  laughed  their  evil  angel  the  baffled  fools  to 


They  change  to  wrong  the  duty  which  God  hath 

written  out 
On  the  great  heart  of  humanity,  too  legible  for 

doubt  ! 
They,  the  loathsome  moral  lepers,  blotched  from 


Did  the  brutal    Then  lift  that  manly  right-hand,  bold  ploughman 
of  the  wave  ! 


Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy,  "  SALVATION  TO 

THE  SLAVE  ! " 
Hold  up  its  tire-wrought   language,    that  whoso 


His 


reads  may  feel 

heart  swell   stron 

change  to  steel. 


within  him,  his   sinews 


Hold  it  up  before  our  sunshine,  up  against  our 

Northern  air, — 
Ho  !  men  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  love  of  God, 

look  there ! 
Take  it  henceforth  for  your   standard,  like  the 


footsole  up  to  crown,  Bruce'  s  heart  of  yore, 

Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  unto  honor  j  In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let  that  hand 


and  renown 

Why,   that  brand  is   highest  honor ! — than  its 
traces  never  yet 


be  seen  before  ! 

And  the  tyrants  of  the  slave-land  shall  tremble  at 
that  sign, 


Upon  old  armorial  hatchments  was  a  provider  bla-  \  When  it  points  its  finger  Southward  along  the  Pu- 


zon  set 
And  thy  unborn 
rocky  stran 


snerations,  as  they  tread  our 


Shall  tell  with  pride  the  story  of  their  father's 

BRANDED  HAND  ! 

As  the  Templar  home  was  welcome,  bearing  back 
from  Syrian  wars 

The  scars  of  Arab  lances  and  of  Paynim  scymi- 
tars. 

The  pallor  of  the  prison,  and  the  shackle's  crim 
son  span, 

So  we  meet  thee,  so  we  greet  thee,  truest  friend 
of  God  and  man. 

He  suffered  for  the  ransom  of  the  dear  Redeemer's  j 

grave, 
Thou  for  his  living  presence  in  the  bound  and  ! 

bleeding  slave ; 

He  for  a  soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  angels  trod, 
Thou  for  the  true  Shechinah,  the  present  home 

of  God  ! 

For,  while  the  jurist,  sitting  with  the  slave-whip 
o'er  him  swung, 

From  the  tortured  truths  of  freedom  the  lie  of 
slavery  wrung, 

And  the  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on  each  God- 
deserted  shrine, 

Broke  the  bondman's  heart  for  bread,  poured  the 
bondman's  blood  for  wine, — 

While  the  multitude  in  blindness  to  a  far-off  Sav 
iour  knelt, 

And  spurned,  the  while,  the  temple  where  a  pres 
ent  Saviour  dwelt ; 

Thou  beheld'st  him  in  the  task-field,  in  the  pris 
on  shadows  dim, 

And  thy  mercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was  mercy 
unto  him  ! 

In  thy  lone  and  long  night-watches,  sky  above 
and  wave  below, 

Thou  didst  learn  a  higher  wisdom  than  the  bab 
bling  schoolmen  know ; 

God's  stars  and  silence  taught  thee,  as  his  angels 
only  can, 

That  the  one  sole  sacred  thing  beneath  the  cope 
of  heaven  is  Man  ! 

That  he  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scrolls  of  law 
1  and  creed, 

In  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness  may  find  mer 
cy  in  his  need  ; 

But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  SOUL  with  chain 
and  rod, 

And  herds  with  lower  natures  the  awful  form  of  ; 
God! 


ritan  line 
Woe  to  the  State-gorged  leeches  and  the  Church's 

locust  band. 
When  they  look  from  slavery's  ramparts  on  the 

coming  of  that  hand  ! 


TEXAS. 

VOICE  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

UP  the  hillside,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen  ; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men  ! 

Like  a  lion  growling  low, — 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow, — 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe, — 

It  is  coming, — it  is  nigh  ! 

Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by  ; 

On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires  , 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal-fires. 

From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak, 

Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  name-tongued  heralds  speak. 

O,  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 

Whoso  shrinks  or»falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow  ! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race, — 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party, — perish  clan; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime, 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time, — 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both  : 

"  What  though  Issachar  be  strong  ! 
Ye  may  load  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long  : 


56 


TO  FANEUTL  HALL. -TO  MASSACHUSETTS. 


4k  Patience  with  her  cup  overrun, 
With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

''  Make  our  Union-bond  a  chain, 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom' s  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

''  Vainly  shall  your  sand-wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 
•  Shattered  over  heaven's  blue  cope  ! 

' '  Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Rather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding  o'er  the  full-orbed  blaze. 

1 '  Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom  • 

Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 

For  her  plough,  and  forge,  and  loom ; 

u  Take  your  slavery -blackened  vales  ; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

u  Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart ; 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart ; 

"  Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will ; 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still. 

' '  With  your  bondman's  right  arm  bare, 
With  his  heart  of  black  despair, 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare  ! 

"  Onward  with  your  fell  design  ; 
Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line  : 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine : 

11  Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

"  By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed, 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread, 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 

"And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward  through  your  generous  soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

"Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow, 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow  ; — 

u  And  when  vengeance  clouds  your  skies, 
Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  lost  on  Paradise ! 

il  We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand, — 

11  Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 
And  the  Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers'  God  !  " 


TO  FANEUIL  HALL. 

1844. 

MEN  ! — if  manhood  still  ye  claim, 
If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 

Roused  by  wrong  or  stung  by  shame, 
Freely,  strongly  still, — 

Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die  : 
Shut  the  mill-gate, — leave  the  stall, 


Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by, — 
Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Wrongs  which  freemen  never  brooked, — 

Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 
Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 

On  your  fathers'  way, — 
These  your  instant  zeal  demand, 

Shaking  with  their  earthquake- call 
Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land, 

Ho,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars, — 

From  your  mountain-ridges  cold, 
Through  whose  pines  the  westering  stars 

Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold, — 
Come,  and  with  your  footsteps  wake 

Echoes  from  that  holy  wall; 
Once  again,  for  Freedom's  sake, 

Rock  your  fathers'  hall ! 

Up,  and  tread  beneath  your  feet 

Every  cord  by  party  spun : 
Let  your  hearts  together  beat 

As  the  heart  of  one. 
Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade, 

Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall : 
Freedom  asks  your  common  aid, — 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Up,  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks 

Ring  from  thence  to  Southern  plains, 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 

Prison-bolts  and  chains  ! 
Speak  as  well  becomes  the  free  : 

Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 
Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be, 

Heard  from  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Have  they  wronged  us  ?    Let  us  then 

Render  back  nor  threats  nor  prayers  ; 
Have  they  chained  our  free-born  men  ? 

LET    US    UNCHAIN   THEIRS  ! 

Up,  your  banner  leads  the  van, 
Blazoned,  "  Liberty  for  all !  " 

Finish  what  your  sires  began  ! 
Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 


TO  MASSACHUSETTS. 

1844. 

WHAT  though  around  thee  blazes 

No  fiery  rallying  sign  "i 
From  all  thy  own  high  places, 

Give  heaven  the  light  of  thine  ! 
What  though  unthrilled,  unmoving, 

The  statesman  stand  apart, 
And  comes  no  warm  approving 

From  Mammon's  crowded  mart  ? 

Still,  let  the  land  be  shaken 

By  a  summons  of  thine  own  ! 
By  all  save  truth  forsaken, 

Why,  stand  with  that  alone  ! 
Shrink  not  from  strife  unequal  ! 

With  the  best  is  always  hope  ; 
And  ever  in  the  sequel 

God  holds  the  right  side  up  ! 

But  when,  with  thine  uniting, 

Come  voices  long  and  loud, 
And  far-off  hills  are  writing 

Thy  tire-words  on  the  cloud  ; 
When  from  Penobscot's  fountains 

A  deep  reponse  is  heard, 
And  across  the  Western  mountains 

Rolls  back  thy  rallying  word  ; 


THE  PINE-TREE.-LINES. 


57 


Shall  thy  line  of  battle  falter, 

With  its  allies  just  in  view  ? 
O,  by  hearth  and  holy  altar, 

My  fatherland,  be  true  ! 
Fling  abroad  thy  scrolls  of  Freedom  ! 

Speed  them  onward  far  and  fast ! 
Over  hill  and  valley  speed  them, 

Like  the  sibyl's  on  the  blast ! 

Lo  !  the  Empire  State  is  shaking 

The  shackles  from  her  hand  ; 
With  the  rugged  North  is  waking 

The  level  sunset  land  ! 
On  they  come, — the  free  battalions  ! 

East  and  West  and  North  they  come, 
And  the  heart- beat  of  the  millions 

Is  the  beat  of  Freedom's  drum. 

"  To  the  tyrant's  plot  no  favor  ! 

No  heed  to  place-fed  knaves  ! 
Bar  and  bolt  the  door  forever 

Against  the  land  of  slaves  !  " 
Hear  it,  mother  Earth,  and  hear  it, 

The  Heavens  above  us  spread  ! 
The  land  is  roused, — its  spirit 

Was  sleeping,  but  not  dead  ! 


THE  PINE-TREE. 

1846. 

LIFT  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's 
rusted  shield, 

Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine-Tree  on  our  ban 
ner's  tattered  field. 

Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles 
round  the  board, 

Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a  firm, 

u  THUS   SAITH   THE   LOUD  !  " 

Rise   again  for  home    and  freedom  !  —  set  the 

battle  in  array  ! — 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their  sons 

must  do  to-day. 

Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs, — cease  your  pal 
try  pedler  cries, — 

Shall  the  good  State  sink  her  honor  that  your 
gambling  stocks  may  rise  ? 

Would  ye  barter  man  for  cotton? — That  your 
gains  may  sum  up  higher, 

Must  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass  our  chil 
dren  through  the  fire  ? 

Is  the  dollar  only  real  ? — God  and  truth  and  right 
a  dream  ? 

Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must  our 
manhood  kick  the  beam  ? 

O  my  God  ! — for  that  free  spirit,  which  of  old  in 
Boston  town 

Smote  the  Province  House  with  terror,  struck  the 
crest  of  Andros  down  ! — 

For  another  strong-voiced  Adams  in  the  city's 
streets  to  cry, 

u  Up  for  God  and  Massachusetts  ! — Set  your  feet 
on  Mammon's  lie  ! 

Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic, — spin  your  cot 
ton's  latest  pound, — 

But  in  Heaven's  name  keep  your  honor, — keep 
the  heart  o'  the  Bay  State  sound  !  " 

Where  's  the  MAN  for  Massachusetts  ?— Where's 

the  voice  to  speak  her  free  ? — 
Where 's  the  hand  to  light  up  bonfires  from  her 

mountains  to  the  sea  V 
Beats    her  Pilgrim    pulse  no  longer  ? — Sits  she 

dumb  in  her  despair  ? — 
Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence  ? — Has  she  none 

to  do  and  dare  V 


O  my  God  !  for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up  her 

rusted  shield, 
And  to  plant  again  the  Pine-Tree  in  her  banner's 

tattered  field ! 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  VISIT  TO  THE  CITY  OF  WASHING 
TON,  IN  THE  12TH  MONTH  OF  1845. 

WITH  a  cold  and  wintry  noon-light, 
On  its  roofs  and  steeples  shed, 
hadows  weaving  with  the  sunlight 
From  the  gray  sky  overhead, 
Broadly,  vaguely,  all  around  me,  lies   the  half- 
built  town  outspread. 

Through  this  broad  street,  restless  ever, 

Ebbs  and  flows  a  human  tide, 
Wave  on  wave  a  living  river  ; 

Wealth  and  fashion  side  by  side  ; 
Toiler,  idler,  slave  and  master,  in  the  same  quick 
current  glide. 

Underneath  yon  dome,  whose  coping 

Springs  above  them,  vast  and  tall, 
Grave  men  in  the  dust  are  groping 
For  the  largess,  base  and  small, 
Which  the  hand  of  Power  is  scattering,  crumbs 
which  from  its  table  fall. 

Base  of  heart !     They  vilely  barter 
Honor's  wealth  for  party's  place  : 
Step  by  step  on  Freedom's  charter 
Leaving  footprints  of  disgrace ; 
For  to-day's  poor  pittance  turning  from  the  great 
hope  of  their  race. 

Yet,  where  festal  lamps  are  throwing 

Glory  round  the  dancer's  hair, 
Gold-tressed,  like  an  angel's,  flowing 

Backward  on  the  sunset  air  ; 
And  the  low  quick  pulse  of  music  beats  its  meas 
ure  sweet  and  rare : 

There  to-night  shall  woman's  glances, 

Star-like,  welcome  give  to  them, 
Fawning  fools  with  shy  advances 

Seek  to  touch  their  garments'  hem, 
With  the  tongue  of  flattery  glozing  deeds  which 
God  and  Truth  condemn. 

From  this  glittering  lie  my  vision 
Takes  a  broader,  sadder  range, 
Full  before  me  have  arisen 

Other  pictures  dark  and  strange  ; 
From  the  parlor  to  the  prison  must  the  scene  and 
witness  change. 

Hark !  the  heavy  gate  is  swinging 
On  its  hinges,  harsh  and  slow  ; 
One  pale  prison  lamp  is  flinging 

On  a  fearful  group  below 

Such  a  light  as  leaves  to  terror  whatsoe'er  it  does 
not  show. 

Pitying  God  !— Is  that  a  WOMAN 

On  whose  wrist  the  shackles  clash  ? 
Is  that  shriek  she  utters  human, 
Underneath  the  stinging  lash  ? 
Are  they  MEN  whose  eyes  of  madness  from  that 
sad  procession  flash  ? 

Still  the  dance  goes  gayly  onward  ! 

What  is  it  to  Wealth  and  Pride 

That  without  the  stars  are  looking 

On  a  scene  which  earth  should  hide  ? 
That  the  SLAVE-SHIP  lies  in  waiting,  rocking  on 
Potomac's  tide  ! 


58 


LINES. 


Vainly  to  that  mean  Ambition 

Which,  upon  a  rival's  fall, 
Winds  above  its  old  condition, 
With  a  reptile's  slimy  crawl, 

Shall  the  pleading  voice  of  sorrow,  shall  the  slave  , 
in  anguish  call. 

Vainly  to  the  child  of  Fashion, 

Giving  to  ideal  woe 
Graceful  luxury  of  compassion, 

Shall  the  stricken  mourner  go  ; 
Hateful  seems  the  earnest  sorrow,  beautiful  the 
hollow  show  ! 

N?y,  my  words  are  all  too  sweeping  : 

in  this  crowded  human  mart, 
Feeling  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping  ; 

Man's  strong  will  and  woman's  heart, 
In  the  coming  strife  for  Freedom,  yet  shall  bear 
their  generous  part. 

And  from  yonder  sunny  valleys, 

Southward  in  the  distance  lost, 

Freedom  yet  shall  summon  allies 

Worthier  than  the  North  can  boast, 
With  the  Evil  by  their  hearth-stones  grappling  at 
severer  cost. 

Now,  the  soul  alone  is  willing  : 

Faint  the  heart  and  weak  the  knee  ; 
And  as  yet  no  lip  is  thrilling 

With  the  mighty  words,  kk  BE  FREE  !  " 
Tarrieth  long  the  land's  Good  Angel,  but  his  ad 
vent  is  to  be  ! 

Meanwhile,  turning  from  the  revel 

To  the  prison-cell  my  sight, 
For  intenser  hate  of  evil, 

For  a  keener  sense  of  right, 

Shaking  oft'  thy  dust,  I  thank  thee,  City  of  the 
Slaves,  to-night ! 

"  To  thy  duty  now  and  ever  ! 

Dream  no  more  of  rest  or  stay  ; 
Give  to  Freedom's  great  endeavor 

All  thou  art  and  hast  to-day  "  : — 
Thus,  above  the  city's  murmur,  saith  a  Voice,  or 
seems  to  say. 

Ye  with  heart  and  vision  gifted 
To  discern  and  love  the  right, 
Whose  worn  faces  have  been  lifted 

To  the  slowly  growing  light, 

Where  from  Freedom's  sunrise  drifted  slowly  back 
the  murk  of  night ! — 

Ye  who  through  long  years  of  trial 

Still  have  held  your  purpose  fast, 

While  a  lengthening  shade  the  dial 

From  the  westering  sunshine  cast, 
And  of  hope  each  hour's  denial  seemed  an  echo  of 
the  last  !— 

O  my  brothers  !  O  my  sisters  ! 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  near, 
Gazing  with  me  down  the  vistas 

Of  a  sorrow  strange  and  drear  ; 
Would  to  God  that  ye  were  listeners  to  the  Voice 
I  seem  to  hear  ! 

With  the  storm  above  us  driving, 

With  the  false  earth  mined  below, — 
Who  shall  marvel  if  thus  striving 
We  have  counted  friend  as  foe  ; 
Unto  one  another  giving  in  the  darkness  blow  for 
blow. 

Well  it  may  be  that  our  natures 
Have  grown  sterner  and  more  hard, 


And  the  freshness  of  their  features 

Somewhat  harsh  and  battle-scarred, 
And  their  harmonies  of  feeling  overtasked  and 
rudely  jarred 

Be  it  so.     It  should  not  swerve  us 
From  a  purpose  true  and  brave  ; 
Dearer  Freedom's  rugged  service 
Than  the  pastime  oi  the  slave  ; 
Better  is  the  storm  above  it  than  the  quiet  of  the 
grave. 

Let  us  then,  uniting,  bury 

All  our  idle  feuds  in  dust, 
And  to  future  conflicts  carry 

Mutual  faith  and  common  trust ; 
Always  he  who  most  forgiveth  in  his  brother  is 
most  just. 

From  the  eternal  shadow  rounding 

All  our  sun  and  starlight  here, 
Voices  of  our  lost  ones  sounding 
Bids  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 
Through  the  silence,  down  the  spaces,  falling  on 
the  inward  ear. 

Know  we  not  our  dead  are  looking 

Downward  with  a  sad  surprise, 
All  our  strife  of  words  rebuking 

\Vith  their  mild  and  loving  eyes  ? 
Shall  we  grieve  the  holy  angels  ?     Shall  we  cloud 
their  blessed  skies  V 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o'er  us 
Which  have  fallen  in  our  way  ; 
Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 

Cheerly,  bravely,  while  we  may, 
Ere  the  long  night-silence  cometh,  and  with  us  it 
is  not  day  ! 


LINES, 

FROM  A  LETTER  TO  A  YOUNG  CLERICAL  FRIEND. 

A  STRENGTH  Thy  service  cannot  tire, — 
A  faith  which  doubt  can  never  dim, — 

A  heart  of  love,  a  lip  of  fire, — 
O  Freedom's  God  !  be  thou  to  him  ! 

Speak  through  him  words  of  power  and  fear, 
As  through  thy  prophet  bards  of  old, 

And  let  a  scornful  people  hear 

Once  more  thy  Sinai-thunders  rolled. 

For  lying  lips  thy  blessing  seek, 

And  hands  of  blood  are  raised  to  Thee, 

And  on  thy  children,  crushed  and  weak, 
The  oppressor  plants  his  kneeling  knee. 

Let  then,  O  God  !  thy  servant  dare 
Thy  truth  in  all  its  power  to  tell, 

Unmask  the  priestly  thieves,  and  tear 
The  Bible  from  the  grasp  of  hell ! 

From  hollow  rite  and  narrow  span 
Of  law  and  sect  by  Thee  released, 

O,  teach  him  that  the  Christian  man 
Is  holier  than  the  Jewish  priest. 

Chase  back  the  shadows,  gray  and  old, 
Of  the  dead  ages,  from  his  way, 

And  let  his  hopeful  eyes  behold 
The  dawn  of  thy  millennial  day  ;— 

That  day  when  fettered  limb  and  mind 
Shall  know  the  truth  which  maketh  free, 

And  he  alone  who  loves  his  kind 
Shall,  childlike,  claim  the  love  of  Thee  ! 


YORKTOWN.  —LINES. 


YORKTOWN.: 


FROM  Yorktown's  ruins,  ranked  and  still, 
Two  lines  stretch  far  o'er  vale  and  hill : 
Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one  V 
Hark !  the  low  murmur  :  Washington ! 
Who  bends  his  keen,  approving  glance 
Where  down  the  gorgeous  line  of  Prance 
Shine  knightly  star  and  plume  of  snow  ? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Rochambeau  ! 

The  earth  which  bears  this  calm  array 
Shook  with  the  war-charge  yesterday, 
Ploughed  deep  with  hurrying  hoof  and  wheel, 
Shot-sown  and  bladed  thick  with  steel ; 
October's  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled  in  the  breath-smoke  of  the  gun, 
And  down  night's  double  blackness  fell, 
Like  a  dropped  star,  the  blazing  shell. 

Now  all  is  hushed  :  the  gleaming  lines 
Stand  moveless  as  the  neighboring  pines  ; 
While  through  them,  sullen,  grim,  and  slow, 
The  conquered  hosts  of  England  go  : 
O'Hara's  brow  belies  his  dress, 
Guy  Tarleton's  troop  rides  bannerless : 
Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted  homes, 
Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  comes  ! 

Nor  thou  alone  :  with  one  glad  voice 
Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice  ; 
Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 
She  waits  with  sleepless  eye  her  time, 
Shouting  from  cave  and  mountain  wood 
Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 
While  they  who  hunt  her  quail  with  fear  ; 
The  New  World's  chain  lies  broken  here  ! 

But  who  are  they,  who,  cowering,  wait 
Within  the  shattered  fortress  gate  ? 
Dark  tillers  of  Virginia's  soil, 
Classed  with  the  battle's  common  spoil, 
With  household  stuffs,  and  fowl,  and  swine, 
With  Indian  weed  and  planters'  wine, 
With  stolen  beeves,  and  foraged  corn, — 
Are  they  not  men,  Virginian  born  ? 

O,  veil  your  faces,  young  and  brave  ! 
Sleep,  Scammel,  in  thy  soldier  grave  ! 
Sons  of  the  Northland,  ye  who  set 
Stout  hearts  against  the  bayonet, 
And  pressed  with  steady  footfall  near 
The  moated  battery's  blazing  tier, 
Turn  your  scarred  faces  from  the  sight, 
Let  shame  do  homage  to  the  right ! 

Lo  !  threescore  years  have  passed  ;  and  where 
The  Gallic  timbrel  stirred  the  air, 
With  Northern  drum-roll,  and  the  clear, 
Wild  horn-blow  of  the  mountaineer, 
While  Britain  grounded  on  that  plain 
The  arms  she  might  not  lift  again, 
As  abject  as  in  that  old  day 
The  slave  still  toils  his  life  away. 

O,  fields  still  green  and  fresh  in  story, 

Old  days  of  pride,  old  names  of  glory, 

Old  marvels  of  the  tongue  and  pen, 

Old  thoughts  which  stirred  the  hearts  of  men, 

Ye  spared  the  wrong  ;  and  over  all 

Behold  the  avenging  shadow  fall ! 

Your  world-wide  honor  stained  with  shame, — 

Your  freedom's  self  a  hollow  name  ! 

Where  '  s  now  the  flag  of  that  old  war  ? 
Where  flows  its  stripe  ?     Where  burns  its  star  ? 
Bear  witness,  Palo  Alto's  day, 
Dark  Vale  of  Palms,  red  Monterey, 
Where  Mexic  Freedom,  young  and  weak, 
Fleshes  the  Northern  eagle's  beak  ; 


Symbol  of  terror  and  despair, 

Of  chains  and  slaves,  go  seek  it  theie  ! 

Laugh,  Prussia,  midst  thy  iron  ranks  ! 
Laugh,  Russia,  from  thy  Neva's  banks  ! 
Brave  sport  to  see  the  fledgling  born 
Of  Freedom  by  its  parent  torn  ! 
Safe  now  is  Speilberg's  dungeon  cell, 
Safe  drear  Siberia's  frozen  hell : 
With  Slavery's  flag  o'er  both  unrolled, 
What  of  the  New  World  fears  the  Old  ? 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  IN~  THE  BOOK  OF  A  FRIEND. 

ON  page  of  thine  I  cannot  trace 

The  cold  and  heartless  commonplace, — 

A  statue's  fixed  and  marble  grace. 

For  ever  as  these  lines  I  penned, 

Still  with  the  thought  of  thee  will  blend 

That  of  some  loved  and  common  friend,— 

Who  in  life's  desert  track  has  made 
His  pilgrim  tent  with  mine,  or  strayed 
Beneath  the  same  remembered  shade. 

And  hence  my  pen  unfettered  moves 
In  freedom  which  the  heart  approves, — 
The  negligence  which  friendship  loves. 

And  wilt  thou  prize  my  poor  gift  less 

For  simple  air  and  rustic  dress, 

And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness  ? — 

O,  more  than  specious  counterfeit 
Of  sentiment  or  studied  wit,     • 
A  heart  like  thine  shoulfl.  value  it. 

Yet  half  I  fear  my  gift  will  be 
Unto  thy  book,  if  riot  to  thee, 
Of  more  than  doubtful  courtesy. 

A  banished  name  from  fashion's  sphere, 

A  lay  unheard  of  Beauty's  ear, 

Forbid,  disowned, — what  do  they  here? — 

Upon  my  ear  not  all  in  vain 

Came  the  sad  captive's  clanking  chain, — 

The  groaning  from  his  bed  of  pain. 

And  sadder  still,  I  saw  >the  woe 

Which  only  wounded  spirits  know 

When  Pride's  strong  footsteps  o'er  them  go. 

Spurned  not  alone  in  walks  abroad, 
But  from  the  "temples  of  the  Lord " 
Thrust  out  apart,  like  things  abhorred. 

Deep  as  I  felt,  and  stern  and  strong, 

In  words  which  Prudence  smothered  long, 

My  soul  spoke  out  against  the  wrong  ; 

Not  mine  alone  the  task  to  speak 
Of  comfort  to  the  poor  and  weak, 
And  dry  the  tear  on  Sorrow's  cheek , 

But,  mingled  in  the  conflict  warm, 
To  pour  the  fiery  breath  of  storm 
Through  the  harsh  trumpet  of  Reform  ; 

To  brave  Opinion's  settled  frown, 
From  ermined  robe  and  saintly  gown, 
While  wrestling  reverenced  Error  down. 

Founts  gushed  beside  my  pilgrim  way, 
Cool  shadows  on  the  greensward  lay, 
Flowers  swung  upon  the  bending  spray. 


GO 


LINES.— P.E  AN. 


And,  broad  and  bright,  on  either  hand, 
Stretched  the  green  slopes  of  Fairy-land, 
With  Hope's  eternal  sunbow  spanned ; 

Whence  voices  called  me  like  the  flow, 
Which  on  the  listener's  ear  will  grow, 
Of  forest  streamlets  soft  and  low. 

And  gentle  eyes,  which  still  retain 
Their  picture  on  the  heart  and  brain, 
Smiled,  beckoning  from  that  path  of  pain. 

In  vain  ! — nor  dream,  nor  rest,  nor  pause 
Remain  for  him  who  round  him  draws 
The  battered  mail  of  Freedom's  cause. 

From  youthful  hopes, — from  each  green  spot 
Of  young  Romance,  and  gentle  Thought, 
Where  storm  and  tumult  enter  not, — 

From  each  fair  altar,  where  belong 
The  offerings  Love  requires  of  Song 
In  homage  to  her  bright-eyed  throng, — 

With  soul  and  strength,  with  heart  and  hand, 
I  turned  to  Freedom's  struggling  band, — 
To  the  sad  Helots  of  our  land. 

What  marvel  then  that  Fame  should  turn 
Her  notes  of  praise  to  those  of  scorn, — 
Her  gifts  reclaimed, — her  smiles  withdrawn 

What  matters  it ! — a  few  years  more, 
Life's  surge  so  restless  heretofore 
Shall  break  upon  the  unknown  shore ! 

In  that  far  land  shall  disappear 

The  shadows  which  we  follow  here, — 

The  mist-wreaths  of  our  atmosphere  ! 

Before  no  work  of  mortal  hand, 
Of  human  will  or  strength  expand 
The  peril  gates  of  the  Better  Land  ; 

Alone  in  that  great  love  which  gave 
Life  to  the  sleeper  of  the  grave, 
Resteth  the  power  to  u  seek  and  save." 

Yet,  if  the  spirit  gazing  through 

The  vista  of  the  past  can  view 

One  deed  to  Heaven  and  virtue  true, — 

If  through  the  wreck  of  wasted  powers, 
Of  garlands  wreathed  from  Folly's  bowers, 
Of  idle  aims  and  misspent  hours, — 

The  eye  can  note  one  sacred  spot 

By  Pride  and  Self  profaned  not, — 

A  green  place  in  the  waste  of  thought,— 

Where  deed  or  word  hath  rendered  less 
u  The  sum  of  human  wretchedness," 
And  Gratitude  looks  forth  to  bless, — 

The  simple  burst  of  tenderest  feeling 
From  sad  hearts  worn  by  evil-dealing, 
For  blessing  on  the  hand  of  healing, — 

Better  than  Glory's  pomp  will  be 
That  green  and  blessed  spot  to  me, 
A  palm-shade  in  Eternity ! — 

Something  of  Time  which  may  invite 
The  purified  and  spiritual  sight 
To  rest  on  with  a  calm  delight. 

And  when  the  summer  winds  shall  sweep 
With  their  light  wings  my  place  of  sleep, 
And  mosses  round  my  headstone  creep, — 


If  still,  as  Freedom's  rallying  sign, 
Upon  the  young  heart's  altars  shine 
The  very  fires  they  caught  from  mine, — 

If  words  my  lips  once  uttered  still, 
In  the  calm  faith  and  steadfast  will 
Of  other  hearts,  their  work  fulfil, — 

Perchance  with  joy  the  soul  may  learn 
These  tokens,  and  its  eye  discern 
The  fires  which  on  those  altars  burn, — 

A  marvellous  joy  that  even  then, 

The  spirit  hath  its  life  again, 

In  the  strong  hearts  of  mortal  men. 

Take,  lady,  then,  the  gift  I  bring, 

No  gay  and  graceful  offering, — 

No  flower-smile  of  the  laughing  spring. 

Midst  the  green  buds  of  Youth's  fresh  May, 
With  Fancy's  leaf-enwoven  bay, 
My  sad  and  sombre  gift  I  lay. 

And  if  it  deepens  in  thy  mind 

A  sense  of  suffering  human-kind, — 

The  outcast  and  the  spirit-blind  : 

Oppressed  and  spoiled  on  every  side, 
By  Predjudice,  and  Scorn,  and  Pride, 
Life's  common  courtesies  denied  ; 

Sad  mothers  mourning  o'er  their  trust, 
Children  by  want  and  misery  nursed, 
Tasting  life's  bitter  cup  at  first ; 

If  to  their  strong  appeals  which  come 
From  fireless  hearth,  and  crowded  room, 
And  the  close  alley's  noisome  gloom, — 

Though  dark  the  hands  upraised  to  thee 

In  mute  beseeching  agony, 

Thou  lend'st  thy  woman's  sympathy, — 

Not  vainly  on  thy  gentle  shrine, 

Where  Love,  and  Mirth,  and  Friendship  twine 

Their  varied  gifts,  I  offer  mine. 


PJEAN. 
1848. 

Now,  joy  and  thanks  forevermore  ! 

The  dreary  night  has  wellnigh  passed, 
The  slumbers  of  the  North  are  o'er, 

The  Giant  stands  erect  at  last ! 

More  than  we  hoped  in  that  dark  time 
When,  faint  with  watching,  few  and  worn, 

We  saw  no  welcome  day-star  climb 
The  cold  gray  pathway  of  the  morn  ! 

O  weary  hours  !  O  night  of  years  ! 

What  storms  our  darkling  pathway  swept, 
Where,  beating  back  our  thronging  fears, 

By  Faith  alone  our  march  we  kept. 

How  jeered  the  scoffing  crowd  behind, 
How  mocked  before  the  tyrant  train, 

As,  one  by  one,  the  true  and  kind 
Fell  fainting  in  our  path  of  pain  ! 

They  died, — their  brave  hearts  breaking  slow,- 

But,  self -forgetful  to  the  last, 
In  words  of  cheer  and  bugle  blow 

Their  breath  upon  the  darkness  passed. 

A  mighty  host,  on  either  hand, 
Stood  waiting  for  the  dawn  of  day 


MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  SHIPLEY.— TO  A  SOUTHERN  STATESMAN. 


01 


To  crush  like  reeds  our  feeble  band  ; 

The  morn  has  come, — and  where  are  they  ? 

Troop  after  troop  their  line  forsakes  ; 

With  peace-white  banners  waving  free, 
And  from  our  own  the  glad  shout  breaks, 

Of  Freedom  and  Fraternity  ! 

Like  mist  before  the  growing  light, 

The  hostile  cohorts  melt  away; 
Our  frowning  foemen  of  the  night 

Are  brothers  at  the  dawn  of  day ! 

As  unto  these  repentant  ones 

We  open  wide  our-.toil-worn  ranks, 

Along  our  line  a  murmur  runs 
Of  song,  and  praise,  and  grateful  thanks. 

Sound  for  the  onset ! — Blast  on  blast ! 

Till  Slavery's  minions  cower  and  quail ; 
One  charge  of  fire  shall  drive  them  fast 

Like  chaff  before  our  Northern  gale  ! 

O  prisoners  in  your  house  of  pain, 

Dumb,  toiling  millions,  bound  and  sold, 

Look  !  stretched  o'er  Southern  vale  and  plain, 
The  Lord's  delivering  hand  behold  ! 

Above  the  tyrant's  pride  of  power, 
His  iron  gates  and  guarded  wall, 

The  bolts  which  shattered  Shinar's  tower 
Hang,  smoking,  for  a  fiercer  fall. 

Awake  !  awake  !  my  Fatherland  ! 

It  is  thy  Northern  light  that  shines; 
This  stirring  march  of  Freedom's  band 

The  storm-song  of  thy  mountain  pines. 

Wake,  dwellers  where  the  day  expires  ! 

And  hear,  in  winds  that  sweep  your  lakes 
And  fan  your  prairies'  roaring  fires, 

The  signal-call  that  Freedom  makes  ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  SHIPLEY. 

GONE  to  thy  heavenly  Father's  rest ! 

The  flowers  of  Eden  round  thee  blowing, 
And  on  thine  ear  th^  murmurs  blest 

Of  Siloa's  waters  softly  flowing  ! 
Beneath  that  Tree  of  Life  which  gives 
To  all  the  earth  its  healing  leaves 
In  the  white  robe  of  angels  clad, 

And  wandering  by  that  sacred  river, 
Whose  streams  of  holiness  make  glad 

The  city  of  our  God  forever  ! 

Gentlest  of  spirits  ! — not  for  thee 

Our  tears  are  shed,  our  sighs  are  given ; 
Why  mourn  to  know  thou  art  a  free 

Partaker  of  the  joys  of  Heaven  V 
Finished  thy  work,  and  kept  thy  faith 
In  Christian  firmness  unto  death ; 
And  beautiful  as  sky  and  earth, 

When  autumn's  sun  is  downward  going, 
The  blessed  memory  of  thy  worth 

Around  thy  place  of  slumber  glowing  ! 

But  woe  for  us  !  who  linger  still 

With  feebler  strength  and  hearts  less  lowly, 
And  minds  less  steadfast  to  the  will 

Of  Him  whose  every  work  is  holy. 
For  not  like  thine,  is  crucified 
The  spirit  of  our  human  pride  : 
And  at  the  bondman's  tale  of  woe, 

And  for  the  outcast  and  forsaken, 
Not  warm  like  thine,  but  cold  and  slow, 

Our  weaker  sympathies  awaken. 


Darkly  upon  our  struggling  way 

The  storm  of  human  hate  is  sweeping ; 
Hunted  and  branded,  and  a  prey, 

Our  watch  amidst  the  darkness  keeping, 
O  for  that  hidden  strength  which  can 
Nerve  unto  death  the  inner  man  ! 
O  for  thy  spirit,  tried  and  true, 

And  constant  in  the  hour  of  trial, 
Prepared  to  suffer,  or  to  do, 

In  meekness  and  in  self-denial. 

O  for  that  spirit,  meek  and  mild, 

Derided,  spurned,  yet  uncomplaining, — 
By  man  deserted  and  reviled, 

Yet  faithful  to  its  trust  remaining. 
Still  prompt  and  resolute  to  save 
From  scourge  and  chain  the  hunted  slave  ; 
Unwavering  in  the  Truth's  defence, 

Even  where  the  fires  of  Hate  were  burning, 
The  unquailing  eye  of  innocence 

Alone  upon  the  oppressor  turning  ! 

O  loved  of  thousands  !  to  thy  grave, 

Sorrowing  of  heart,  thy  brethren  bore  thee  ; 
The  poor  man  and  the  rescued  slave 

Wept  as  the  broken  earth  closed  o'er  thee  ;  t 
And  grateful  tears,  like  summer  rain, 
Quickened  its  dying  grass  again  ! 
And  there,  as  to  some  pilgrim -shrine, 

Shall  come  the  outcast  and  the  lowly, 
Of  gentle  deeds  and  words  of  thine 

Recalling  memories  sweet  and  holy  ! 

O  for  the  death  the  righteous  die  ! 

An  end,  like  autumn's  day  declining, 
On  human  hearts,  as  on  the  sky, 

With  holier,  tenderer  beauty  shining  ; 
As  to  the  parting  soul  were  given 
The  radiance  of  an  opening  Heaven  ! 
As  if  that  pure  and  blessed  light, 

From  off  the  Eternal  altar  flowing, 
Were  bathing,  in  its  upward  flight, 

The  spirit  to  its  worship  going ! 


TO  A  SOUTHERN  STATESMAN. 
1846. 

Is  this  thy  voice,  whose  treble  notes  of  fear 
Wail  in  the  wind  ?    And  dost  thou  shake  to  hear, 
Actaeon-like,  the  bay  of  thine  own  hounds, 
Spurning  the  leash,  and  leaping  o'er  their  bounds  ? 
Sore-baffled  statesman  !  when  thy  eager  hand, 
With  game  afoot,  unslippedthe  hungry  pack, 
To  hunt  down  Freedom  in  her  chosen  land, 
Hadst  thou  no  fear,  that,  erelong,  doubling  back, 
These  dogs  of  thine  might  snuff   on  Slavery's 

track  ? 
I  Where  's  now  the  boast,  which  even  thy  guarded 

tongue, 
Cold,  calm,  and  proud,  in  the  teeth  o'  the  Senate 

flung, 

O'er  the  fulfilment  of  thy  baleful  plan, 
Like  Satan's  triumph  at  the  fall  of  man  ? 
How  stood'st  thou  then,  thy  feet  on  Freedom 

planting, 

And  pointing  to  the  lurid  heaven  afar, 
Whence  all  could  see,  through  the  south  window,? 

slanting, 

Crimson  as  blood,  the  beams  of  that  Lone  Star  1 
The  Fates  are  just ;  they  give  us  but  our  own  ; 
Nemesis  ripens  what  our  hands  have  sown. 
There  is  an  Eastern  story,  not  unknown, 
Doubtless,  to  thee,  of  one  whose  magic  skill 
Called  demons  up  his  water-jars  to  fill ; 
Deftly  and  silently,  they  did  his  will, 
But,  when  the  task  was  done,  kept  pouring  still. 
In  vain  with  spell  and  charm  the  wizard  wrought, 
Faster  and  faster  were  the  buckets  brought, 


LINES.— THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER-BREAKERS. 


Higher  and  higher  rose  the  flood  around, 

Till  the  fiends  clapped  their  hands  above  their 

master  drowned  ! 

So,  Carolinian,  it  may  prove  with  thee, 
For  God  still  overrules  man's  schemes,  and  takes 
Craftiness  in  its  self-set  snare,  and  makes 
The  wrath  of  man  to  praise  Him.     It  may  be, 
That  the  roused  spirits  of  Democracy 
May  leave  to  freer  States  the  same  wide  door 
Through  which  thy  slave-cursed  Texas  entered 

in, 

From  out  the  blood  and  fire,  the  wrong  and  sin, 
Of  the  stormed  city  and  the  ghastly  plain, 
Beat  by  hot  hail,  and  wet  with  bloody  rain, 
A  myriad-handed  Aztec  host  may  pour, 
And  swarthy  South  with  pallid  North  combine 
Back  on  thyself  to  turn  thy  dark  design. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  '  ADOPTION  OF  PINCKNEY'S 
RESOLUTIONS,  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  REPRESEN 
TATIVES,  AND  THE  PASSAGE  OF  CALHOUN'S 
"BILL  FOR  EXCLUDING  PAPERS  WRITTEN  OR 
PRINTED,  TOUCHING  THE  SUBJECT  OF  SLAV 
ERY,  FROM  THE  U.  S.  POST-OFFICE,"  IN  THE 

SENATE   OF   THE  UNITED   STATES. 

MEN  of  the  North-land  !  where  's  the  manly  spirit 
Of  the  true-hearted  and  the  unshackled  gone  '? 
Sons  of  old  freemen,  do  we  but  inherit 
Their  names  alone  ? 

Is  the  old  Pilgrim  spirit  quenched  within  us, 

Stoops  the  strong  manhood  of  our  souls  so  low, 
That  Mammon's  lure  or  Party's  wile  can  win  us 
To  silence  now  ? 

Now,  when  our  land  to  ruin's  brink  is  verging, 
In  God's  name,  let  us  speak  while  there  is 

time  ! 

Now,  when  the  padlocks  for  our  lips  are  forging, 
Silence  is  crime  ! 

What  !  shall  we  henceforth  humbly  ask  as  favors 
Rights  all  our  own  ?  In  madness  shall  we  bar 

ter, 

For  treacherous  peace,  the  freedom  Nature  gave 
us, 

God  and  our  charter  ? 

Here  shall  the  statesman  forge  his  human  fetters, 

Here  the  false  jurist  human  rights  deny, 
And,  in  the  church,  their  proud  and  skilled  abet 


tors 


Make  truth  a  lie  ? 


Torture  the  pages  of  the  hallowed  Bible, 

To  sanction  "crime,  and  robbery,  and  blood  ? 
And,  in  Oppression's  hateful  service,  libel 
Both  man  and  God  ? 

Shall  our  New  England  stand  erect  no  longer, 

But  stoop  in  chains  upon  her  downward  way 
Thicker  to  gather  on  her  limbs  and  stronger 
Day  after  day  ? 

O  no  ;  methinks  from  all  her  wild,  green  moun 

tains,  — 
From  valleys  where    her   slumbering  fathers 

lie,— 

From  her  blue  rivers  and  her  welling  fountains, 
And  clear,  cold  sky,  — 

From  her  rough  coast,  and  isles,  which  hungry 

Ocean 

Gnaws  with  his  surges,  —  from  the  fisher's  skiff, 
With  white  sail  swaying  to  the  billows'  motion 
Round  rock  and  cliff,  — 


From  the  free  fireside  of  her  unbought  farmer, — 
From  her  free  laborer  at  his  loom  and  wheel, — 
From  the  brown  smith-shop,  where,  beneath  the 
hammer, 

Rings  the  red  steel, — 

j  From  each  and  all,  if  God  hath  not  forsaken 

Our  land,  and  left  us  to  an  evil  choice, 
I  Loud  as  the  summer  thunderbolt  shall  waken 
A  People's  voice. 

Startling  and  stern  !    the  Northern  winds  shall 

bear  it 

Over  Potomac's  to  St.  Mary's  wave  ; 
And  buried  Freedom  shall  awake  to  hear  it 
Within  her  grave. 

O,  let  that  voice  go  forth  !     The  bondman  sigh 
ing 

By  Santee's  wave,  in  Mississippi's  cane, 
Shall  feel  the  hope,  within  his  bosom  dying, 
Revive  again. 

Let  it  go  forth  !     The  millions  who  are  gazing 

Sadly  upon  us  from  afar,  shall  smile. 
And  unto  God  devout  thanksgiving  raising, 
Bless  us  the  while. 

O  for  your  ancient  freedom,  pure  and  holy, 

For  the  deliverance  of  a  groaning  earth, 
For  the  wronged  captive,  bleeding,  crushed,  and 
lowly, 

Let  it  go  forth  ! 

Sons  of  the  best  of  fathers  !  will  ye  falter 

With  all  they  left  ye  perilled  and  at  stake  ? 
Ho !  once  again  on  Freedom's  holy  altar 
The  fire  awake  ! 

Prayer-strengthened  for  the  trial,  come  together, 

Put  on  the  harness  for  the  moral  fight, 
And,  with  the  blessing  of  your  Heavenly  Father, 
MAINTAIN  THE  RIGHT  ! 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER- 
BREAKERS.37 

IN  Westminster's  royal  halls, 
Robed  in  their  pontificals, 
England's  ancient  prelates  stood 
For  the  people's  right  and  good. 

Closed  around  the  waiting  crowd, 
Dark  and  still,  like  winter's  cloud  ; 
King  and  council,  lord  and  knight, 
Squire  and  yeoman,  stood  in  sight, — • 

Stood  to  hear  the  priest  rehearse, 
In  God's  name,  the  Church's  curse, 
By  the  tapers  round  them  lit, 
Slowly,  sternly  uttering  it. 

u  Right  of  voice  in  framing  laws, 
Right  of  peers  to  try  each  cause ; 
Peasant  homestead,  mean  and  small, 
Sacred  as  the  monarch's  hall, — 

"Whoso  lays  his  hand  on  these, 
England's  ancient  liberties, — 
Whoso  breaks,  by  word  or  deed, 
England's  vow  at  Runnymede, — 

"  Be  he  Prince  or  belted  knight, 
Whatsoe'er  his  rank  or  might, 
If  the  highest,  then  the  worst, 
Let  them  live  and  die  accursed. 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE. 


1 '  Thou,  who  to  thy  Church  hast  given 
Keys  alike,  of  hell  and  heaven, 
Make  our  word  and  witness  sure, 
Let  the  curse  we  speak  endure  !  " 

Silent,  while  that  curse  was  said, 
Every  bare  and  listening  head 
Bowed  in  reverent  awe,  and  then 
All  the  people  said,  Amen  ! 

Seven  times  the  bells  have  tolled, 
For  the  centuries  gray  and  old, 
Since  that  stoled  and  mitred  band 
Cursed  the  tyrants  of  their  land. 

Since  the  priesthood,  like  a  tower, 
Stood  between  the  poor  and  power  ; 
And  the  wronged  and  trodden  down 
Blessed  the  abbot's  shaven  crown. 

Gone,  thank  God,  their  wizard  spell, 
Lost,  their  keys  of  heaven  and  hell  ; 
Yet  I  sigh  for  men  as  bold 
As  those  bearded  priests  of  old. 

Now,  too  oft  the  priesthood  wait 
At  the  threshold  of  the  state, — 
Waiting  for  the  beck  and  nod 
Of  its  power  as  law  and  God. 

Fraud  exults,  while  solemn  words 
Sanctify  his  stolen  hoards  ; 
Slavery  laughs,  while  ghostly  lips 
Bless  his  manacles  and  whips. 

Not  on  them  the  poor  rely, 

Not  to  them  looks  liberty, 

Who  with  fawning  falsehood  cower 

To  the  wrong,  when  clothed  with  power. 

O,  to  see  them  meanly  cling, 
Round  the  master,  round  the  king, 
Sported  with,  and  sold  and  bought, — 
Pitif  uller  sight  is  not ! 

Tell  me  not  that  this  must  be : 
God's  true  priest  is  always  free ; 
Free,  the  needed  truth  to  speak, 
Right  the  wrongad,  and  raise  the  weak. 

Not  to  fawn  on  wealth  and  state, 
Leaving  Lazarus  at  the  gate, — 
Not  to  peddle  creeds  like  wares, — 
Not  to  mutter  hireling  prayers, — 

Nor  to  paint  the  new  life's  bliss 
On  the  sable  ground  of  this, — 
Golden  streets  for  idle  knave. 
Sabbath  rest  for  weary  slave  ! 

Not  for  words  and  works  like  these, 
Priest  of  God,  thy  mission  is  ; 
But  to  make  earth's  desert  glad, 
In  its  Eden  greenness  clad  ; 

And  to  level  manhood  bring 
Lord  and  peasant,  serf  and  king ; 
And  the  Christ  of  God  to  find 
In  the  humblest  of  thy  kind ! 

Thine  to  work  as  well  as  pray. 
Clearing  thorny  wrongs  away  ; 
Plucking  up  the  weeds  of  sin, 
Letting  heaven's  warm  sunshine  in, — 

Watching  on  the  hills  of  Faith  ; 
Listening  what  the  spirit  saith, 
Of  the  dim-seen  light  afar, 
Growing  like  a  nearing  star. 


God's  interpreter  art  thou, 
To  the  waiting  ones  below  ; 
'Twixt  them  and  its  light  midway 
Heralding  the  better  day, — 

Catching  gleams  of  temple  spires, 
Hearing  notes  of  angel  choirs, 
Where,  as  yet  unseen  of  them, 
Comes  the  New  Jerusalem  ! 

Like  the  seer  of  Patmos  gazing, 
On  the  glory  downward  blazing  ; 
Till  upon  Earth's  grateful  sod 
Rests  the  City  of  our  God  ! 


THE  SLAVES  OF    MARTINIQUE. 

SUGGESTED   BY   A   DAGUEUUEOTYPE     FROM  A 
FRENCH   ENGRAVING. 

BEAMS  of  noon,  like  burning  lances,  through  the 

tree-tops  flash  and  glisten, 
As  she  stands  before  her  lover,  with  raised  face 

to  look  and  listen. 

Dark,  but  comely,  like  the  maiden  in  the  ancient 
Jewish  song  : 

Scarcely  has  the  toil  of  task-fields  don.e  her  grace 
ful  beauty  wrong. 

He,  the  strong  one  and  the  manly,  with  the  vas 
sal's  garb  and  hue, 

Holding  still  his  spirit's  birthright,  to  his  higher 
nature  true ; 

Hiding  deep  the  strengthening  purpose  of  a  free 
man  in  his  heart, 

As  the  greegree  holds  his  Fetich  from  the  whits 
man's  gaze  apart. 

Ever  foremost  of  his  comrades,  when  the  driver's 

morning  horn 
Calls  away  to  stifling  mill-house,  to  the  fields  of 

cane  and  corn  : 

Fall  the  keen  and  burning  lashes  never  on  his  back 

or  limb ; 
Scarce  with  look  or  word  of  censure,  turns  the 

driver  unto  him. 

Yet,  his  brow  is  always  thoughtful,  and  his  eye 

is  hard  and  stern  ; 
Slavery's  last  and  humblest  lesson  he  has  never 

deigned  to  learn. 

And,  at  evening,  when  his  comrades  dance  before 

their  master's  door, 
Folding  arms  and  knitting  forehead,  stands  he 

silent  evermore. 

God  be  praised  for  every  instinct  which  rebels 

against  a  lot 
Where  the  brute  survives  the  human,  and  man's 

upright  form  is  not ! 

As  the  serpent-like  bejuco  winds  his  spiral  fold  on 

fold 
Round  the  tall  and  stately  ceiba,  till  it  withers  in 

his  hold ; — 

Slow  decays  the  forest  monarch,  closer  girds  tho 

fell  embrace, 
Till  the  tree  is  seen  no  longer,  and  the  vine  is  in 

its  place, — 

So  a  base  and  bestial  nature  round  the  vassal's 

manhood  twines, 
And  the  spirit  wastes  beneath  it,  like  the  ceiba, 

choked  with  vines. 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE.— THE  CRISIS. 


God  is  Love,  saith  the  Evangel ;  and  our  world  i  "  Go ;  and  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  our  last 

of  woe  and  sin  farewell  is  o'er, 

Is  made  light  and  happy  only  when  a  Love  is    Kneeling  on  our  place  of  parting,  I  will  bless  thee 
•  shining  in.  from  the  shore. 


Ye  whose  lives    are  free  as  sunshine,   finding, 


wheresoe'er  ye  roam, 
s  of  welcome,  looks  oi 
the  world  like  home ; 


u  But  for  me,  my  mother,  lying  on  her  sick-bed 


all  the  day, 
Smiles  of  welcome,  looks  of  kindness,  making  all    Lifts  her  weary  head  to  watch  me,  coming  through 


In  the  veins  of  whose  affections  kindred  blood  is 


but  a 


Ivci 


Of  one  kindly  current  throbbing  from  the  univer 
sal  heart ; 

Can  ye  know  the  deeper  meaning  of  a  love  in 

Slavery  nursed, 
Last  flower  of  a  lost  Eden,  blooming  in  that  Soil 

accursed  ? 

Love  of  Home,  and  Love  of  Woman  ! — dear  to  all, 

but  doubly  dear 

To  the  heart  whose  pulses  elsewhere  measure  only 
•     hate  and  fear. 

All  around  the  desert  circles,  underneath  a  brazen 

sky, 
Only  one  green  spot  remaining  where  the  dew  is 

never  dry ! 

From  the  horror  of  that  desert,  from  its  atmos- 


the  twilight  gray. 

"Should  I  leave  her  sick  and  helpless,  even  free 
dom,  shared  with  thee, 

Would  be  sadder  far  than  bondage,  lonely  toil, 
and  stripes  to  me. 

"For  my  heart  would  die  within  me,  and  my 
brain  would  soon  be  wild  ; 

I  should  hear  my  mother  calling  through  the  twi 
light  for  her  child  !  " 

Blazing  upward  from  the  ocean,  shines  the  sun  of 

morning-time, 
Through  the  coffee-trees  in  blossom,  and  green 

hedges  of  the  lime. 

Side  by  side,  amidst  the  slave-gang,  toil  the  lover 
and  the  maid ; 

Wherefore  looks  he  o'er  the  waters,  leaning  for 
ward  on  his  spade  ? 

Sadly  looks  he,  deeply  sighs  he  :  't  is  the  Haytien's 


phere  of  hell,  sail  he  sees, 

Turns  the  fainting  spirit  thither,  as  the  diver    Like  a  white  cloud  of  the  mountains,  driven  sea- 
seeks  his  bell.  ward  by  the  breeze ! 

'T  is  the  fervid  tropic  noontime ;  faint  and  low  '  But  his  arm  a  light  hand  presses,  and  he  hears  a 

the  sea- waves  beat ;  low  voice  call : 

Hazy  rise  the  inland  mountains  through  the  glim-    Hate    of    Slavery,    hope    of    Freedom,     Love  is 

mer  of  the  heat, —  mightier  than  all. 

Where,   through  mingled  leaves  and   blossoms, 

arrowy  sunbeams  flash  and  glisten, 
Speaks  her  lover  to  the  slave-girl,  and  she  lifts 
her  head  to  listen  : — 

THE  CRISIS. 
"We  shall  live  as  slaves  no  longer!  Freedom's 

hour  is  close  at  hand  !  (WRITTEN    ON    LEARNING  THE    TERMS    OF    THE 

Rocks  her  bark  upon  the  waters,  rests  the  boat  I  TREATY  WITH  MEXICO. 

upon  the  strand  !  ACROSS  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the  desert's 

drouth  and  sand, 
I  have  seen  the  Haytien  Captain  ;  I  have  seen  I  The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the  Western 


his  swarthy  cre\ 
Haters  of  the  pallid  faces,  to  their  race  and  color 
true. 

"They  have  sworn  to  wait  our  coming  till  the 
night  has  passed  its  noon, 


Ocean's  strand ; 
From  slumberous  Timpanogos,  to  Gila,  wild  and 

free, 
Flowing  down  from  Nuevo-Lson  to  California's 

sea; 
And  from  the  mountains  of  the  East,  to  Santa 


And  the  gray  and  darkening  waters  roll  above  ]  Rosa's  shore, 

the  sunken  moon  !  "  The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air  no  more. 

O  the  blessed  hope  of  freedom  !  how  with  joy  and  i  O  Vale  of  Rio  Bravo  !     Let  thy  simple  children 

glad  surprise,  weep ; 

For  an  instant  throbs, her  bosom,  for  an  instant    Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids  of 

beam  her  eyes  !  Pecos  keep ; 


But  she  looks  across  the  valley,  where  her  moth 
er's  hut  is  seen, 

Through  the  snowy  bloom  of  coffee,  and  the 
lemon-leaves  so  green. 

And  she  answers,  sad    and  earnest:   "It  were 

wrong  for  thee  to  stay  ; 
God  hath  heard  thy  prayer  for  freedom,  and  his 

finger  points  the  way. 

"Well  I  know  with  what  endurance,  for  the  sake 

of  me  and  mine, 
Thou  hast  borne  too  long  a  burden  never  meant 

for  souls  like  thine. 


Let  Taos  send  her  cry  across  Sierra  Madre's  pines. 


And  Algodones  toll  her  bells  amidst  her  corn  and 

vines ; 
For  lo !  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with  eager 

eyes  of  gain, 

Wide  scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on  broad 
in. 


Let  Sacramento's  herdsmen  heed  what  sound  the 

winds  bring  down 
Of  footsteps   on  the   crisping   snow,   from   cold 

Nevada's  crown  ! 
Full  hot  and  fast  the  Saxon  rides,  with  rein  of 

travel  slack, 
And,  bending  o'er  his  saddle,  leaves  the  sunrise 

at  his  back ; 


THE  CRISIS.— THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN. 


65 


By  many  a  lonely  river,  and  gorge  of  fir  and  pine, 
On  many  a  wintry  hill-top,  his  nightly  camp-fires 
shine. 

O  countrymen  and  brothers  !  that  land  of  lake 
and  plain, 

Of  salt  wastes  alternating  with  valleys  fat  with 
grain  ; 

Of  mountains  white  with  winter,  looking  down 
ward,  cold,  serene, 

On  their  feet  with  spring- vines  tangled  and  lapped 
in  softest  green  ; 

Swift  through  whose  black  volcanic  gates,  o'er 
many  a  sunny  vale, 

Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bison's  dusty 
trail ! 

Great  spaces  yet  untravelled,  great  lakes  whose 
mystic  shores 

The  Saxon  rifle  never  heard,  nor  dip  of  Saxon  oars ; 

Great  herds  that  wander  all  unwatched,  wild 
steeds  that  none  have  tamed, 

Strange  fish  in  unknown  streams,  and  birds  the 
Saxon  never  named ; 

Deep  mines,  dark  mountain  crucibles,  where  Na 
ture's  chemic  powers 

Work  out  the  Great  Designer's  will ; — all  these 
ye  say  are  ours  ! 

Forever  ours  !  for  good  or  ill,  on  us  the  burden 

lies  ; 
God's  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung  across 

the  skies. 
Shall  Justice,  Truth,  and  Freedom  turn  the  poised 

and  trembling  scale  ? 
Or  shall   the  Evil  triumph,  and  robber  Wrong 

Srevail  ? 
e  broad  land  o'er  which  our  flag  in  starry 
splendor  waves, 

Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear  the  tread 
of  slaves  ? 

The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East  of  which  the 

prophets  told, 
And  brightens  up  the  sky  of  Time  the  Christian 

Age  of  Gold ; 
Old  Might  to  Right  is  yielding,  battle  blade  to 

clerkly  pen, 
Earth's  monarchs  are  her  peoples,  and  her  serfs 

stand  up  as  men  ; 

The  isles  rejoice  together,in  a  day  are  nations  born, 
And  the  slave  walks  free  in  Tunis,  and  by  Stam- 

boul's  Golden  Horn  ! 

Is  this,O  countrymen  of  mine  !  a  day  for  us  to  sow 
The  soil  of  new-gained  empire  with  slavery's 
seeds  of  woe  ? 


To  feed  with  our  fresh  life-blood  the  Old  World's 

cast-off  crime, 
Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth,  from 

the  tired  lap  of  Time  ? 

To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost  nations  ran, 
And  die  like  them  of  unbelief  of  God,  and  wrong 

of  man  ? 

Great  Heaven !  Is  this  our  mission  ?  End  in  this 
the  prayers  and  tears, 

The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of 'our  younger, 
better  years  V 

Still  as  the  Old  World  rolls  in  light,  shall  ours  in 
shadow  turn, 

A  beamless  Chaos,  cursed  of  God,  through  outer 
darkness  borne  ? 

Where  the  far  nations  looked  for  light,  a  black 
ness  in  the  air  ? 

Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened,  the  long 
wail  of  despair  ? 

The  Crisis  presses  on  us ;  face  to  face  with  us  it 
stands, 

With  solemn  lips  of  question,  like  the  Sphinx  in 
Egypt's  sands ! 

This  day  we  fashion  Destiny,  our  web  of  Fate  we 
spin ; 

This  day  for  all  hereafter  choose  we  holiness  or 
sin ; 

Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's  cloudy 
crown, 

We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts  of  curs 
ing  down ! 

By  all  for  which  the  martyrs  bore  their  agony  and 
shame ; 

By  all  the  warping  words  of  truth  with  which 
the  prophets  came  ; 

By  the  Future  which  awaits  us ;  by  all  the  hopes 
which  cast 

Their  faint  and  trembling  beams  across  the  black 
ness  of  the  Past ; 

And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who  for 
Earth's  freedom  died, 

O  my  people  !  O  my  brothers !  let  us  choose  the 
righteous  side. 

So  shall  the  Northern  Pioneer  go  joyful  on  his 

way; 

To  wed  Penobscot's  waters  to  San  Francisco's  bay ; 
To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and  sow  the 

vales  with  grain ; 
And  bear,  with  Liberty  and  Law,  the  Bible  in  his 

train : 
The  mighty  West  shall  bless  the  East,  and  sea 

shall  answer  sea, 
And  mountain  unto  mountain  call,  PRAISE  GOD, 

FOR  WE  ARE  FREE  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN. 

ERE  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hills 

The  sun  shall  sink  again, 
Farewell  to  life  and  all  its  ills, 

Farewell  to  cell  and  chain. 

These  prison  shades  are  dark  and  cold,- 

But,  darker  far  than  they, 
The  shadow  of  a  sorrow  old 

Is  on  my  heart  alway. 

5 


For  since  the  day  when  Warkworth  wood 

Closed  o'er  my  steed  and  I, 
An  alien  from  my  name  and  blood, 

A  weed  cast  out  to  die, — 

When,  looking  back  in  sunset  light, 

I  saw  her  turret  gleam, 
And  from  its  casement,  far  and  white, 

Her  sign  of  farewell  stream, 

Like  one  who,  from  some  desert  shore, 
Doth  home's  green  isles  descry, 


66 


THE  HOLY  LAND.— PALESTINE. 


And,  vainly  longing,  gazes  o'er 
The  waste  of  wave  and  sky  ; 

So  from  the  desert  of  my  fate 

I  gaze  across  the  past ; 
Forever  on  life's  dial-plate 

The  shade  is  backward  cast ! 

I've  wandered  wide  from  shore  to  shore, 

I  Ve  knelt  at  many  a  shrine ; 
And  bowed  me  to  the  rocky  floor 

Where  Bethlehem's  tapers  shine  ; 

And  by  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
I  've  pledged  my  knightly  sword 

To  Christ,  his  blessed  Church,  and  her, 
The  Mother  of  our  Lord. 

O,  vain  the  vow,  and  vain  the  strife  ! 

How  vain  do  all  things  seem  ! 
My  soul  is  in  the  past,  and  life 

To-day  is  but  a  dream  ! 

In  vain  the  penance  strange  and  long, 

And  hard  for  flesh  to  bear  ; 
The  prayer,  the  fasting,  and  the  thong 

And  sackcloth  shirt  of  hair. 

The  eyes  of  memory  will  not  sleep, — 

Its  ears  are  open  still ; 
And  vigils  with  the  past  they  keep 

Against  my  feeble  will. 

And  still  the  loves  and  joys  of  old 

Do  evermore  uprise ; 
I  see  the  flow  of  locks  of  gold, 

The  shine  of  loving  eyes  ! 

Ah  me  !  upon  another's  breast 

Those  golden  locks  recline ; 
I  see  upon  another  rest 

The  glance  that  once  was  mine. 

"  O  faithless  priest !  O  perjured  knight !  " 

I  hear  the  Master  cry ; 
u  Shut  out  the  vision  from  thy  sight, 

Let  Earth  and  Nature  die. 

"  The  Church  of  God  is  now  thy  spouse, 
And  thou  the  bridegroom  art ; 

Then  let  the  burden  of  thy  vows 
Crush  down  thy  human  heart !  " 

In  vain !     This  heart  its  grief  must  know, 

Till  life  itself  hath  ceased, 
And  falls  beneath  the  self-same  blow 

The  lover  and  the  priest ! 

O  pitying  Mother  !  souls  of  light, 

And  saints,  and  martyrs  old  ! 
Pray  for  a  weak  and  sinful  knight, 

A  suffering  man  uphold. 

Then  let  the  Paynim  work  his  will, 

And  death  unbind  my  chain, 
Ere  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hill 

The  sun  shall  fall  again. 


THE  HOLY  LAND. 

FKOM   LAMARTINE. 

I  HAVE  not  felt,  o'er  seas  of  sand, 
The  rocking  of  the  desert  bark  ; 

Nor  laved  at  Hebron's  fount  my  hand, 
By  Hebron's  palm-trees  cool  and  dark  ; 

Nor  pitched  my  tent  at  even-fall, 
On  dust  where  Job  of  old  has  lain, 


Nor  dreamed  beneath  its  canvas  wa 
The  dream  of  Jacob  o'er  again. 

One  vast  world-page  remains  unread  , 

How  shine  the  stars  in  Chaldea's  sky, 
How  sounds  the  reverent  pilgrim's  tread, 

How  beats  the  heart  with  God  so  nigh ! — 
How  round  gray  arch  and  column  lone. 

The  spirit  of  the  old  time  broods, 
And  sighs  in  all  the  winds  that  moan 

Along  the  sandy  solitudes  ! 

In  thy  tall  cedars,  Lebanon, 

I  have  not  heard  the  nations'  cries, 
Nor  seen  thy  eagles  stooping  down 

Where  buried  Tyre  in  ruin  lies. 
The  Christian's  prayer  I  have  not  said 

In  Tadmor's  temples  of  decay, 
Nor  startled,  with  my  dreary  tread, 

The  waste  where  Memnon's  empire  lay. 

Nor  have  I,  from  thy  hallowed  tide, 

O  Jordan  !  heard  the  low  lament, 
Like  that  sad  wail  along  thy  side 

Which  Israel's  mournful  prophet  sent ! 
Nor  thrilled  within  that  grotto  lone 

Where,  deep  in  night,  the  Bard  of  Kings 
Felt  hands  of  «fire  direct  his  own, 

And  sweep  for  God  the  conscious  strings. 

I  have  not  climbed  to  Olivet, 

Nor  laid  me  where  my  Saviour  lay, 
And  left  his  trace  of  tears  as  yet 

By  angel  eyes  unwept  away  ; 
Nor  watched,  at  midnight's  solemn  time, 

The  garden  where  his  prayer  and  groan, 
Wrung  by  his  sorrow  and  our  crime, 

Rose  to  One  listening  ear  alone. 

I  have  not  kissed  the  rock-hewn  grot 

Where  in  his  Mother's  arms  he  lay, 
Nor  knelt  upon  the  sacred  spot 

Where  last  his  footsteps  pressed  the  clay  ; 
Nor  looked  on  that  sad  mountain  head, 

Nor  smote  my  sinful  breast,  where  wide 
His  arms  to  fold  the  world  he  spread, 

And  bowed  his  head  to  bless— and  died  ! 


PALESTINE. 

BLEST  land  of  Judaea  !  thrice  hallowed  of  song, 
Where    the    holiest    of    memories    pilgrim-like 

throng  ; 
In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  by  the  shores  of  thy 

sea, 
On  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart  is  with  thee. 

With  the  eye  of  a  spirit  I  look  on  that  shore, 
Where   pilgrim  and  prophet  have  lingered  be 
fore; 

With  the  glide  of  a  spirit  I  traverse  the  sod 
Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the  angels  of  God. 

Blue  sea  of  the  hills  ! — in  my  spirit  I  hear 
Thy  waters,  Genesaret,  chime  on  my  ear  ; 
Where  the  Lowly  and  Just  with  the  people  sat 

down, 
And  thy  spray  on  the  dust  of  his  sandals  was 

thrown. 

Beyond  are  Bethulia's  mountains  of  green, 
And  the  desolate  hills  of  the  wild  Gadarene ; 
And  I  pause  on  the  goat-crags  of  Tabor  to  see 
The  gleam  of  thy  waters,  O  dark  Galilee  ! 

Hark,  a  sound  in  the  valley  !  where,  swollen  and 

strong, 
Thy  river,'  O  Kishon,  is  sweeping  along  ; 


PALESTINE.  -EZEKIEL. 


Where  the  Canaanite   strove   with    Jehovah   in 

vain, 
And  thy  torrent  grew  dark  with  the  blood  of  the 

slam. 

There  down  from  his  mountains  stern  Zebulon  | 

came, 

And  Naphtali's  stag,  with  his  eyeballs  of  flame,     j 
And  the  chariots  of  Jabin  rolled  harmlessly  on, 
For  the  arm  of  the  Lord  was  Abinoam's  son  ! 

There  sleep  the  still  rocks  and  the  caverns  which  j 

rang 

To  the  song  which  the  beautiful  prophetess  sang,  j 
When  the  princes  of  Issachar  stood  by  her  side, 
And  the  shout  of  a  host  in  its  triumph  replied. 

Lo,  Bethlehem's  hill-site  before  me  is  seen, 
With  the  mountains  around,  and  the  valleys  be 
tween  ; 

There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah,  and  there 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on  the  air. 

And  Bethany's  palm-trees  in  beauty  still  throw 
Their  shadows  at  noon  on  the  ruins  below  ; 
But  where  are  the  sisters  who  hastened  to  greet 
The  lowly  Redeemer,  and  sit  at  his  feet  ? 

I  tread  where  the  TWELVE  in  their  wayfaring  trod ; 
I  stand  where  they  stood  with  the  CHOSEN  OF 

GOD,— 
Where  his  blessing  was  heard  and  his  lessons  were 

taught, 
Where  the  blind  were  restored  and  the  healing  was 

wrought. 

O,  here  with  his  flock  the  sad  Wanderer  came, — 
These  hills  he  toiled  over  in  grief  are  the  same, — 
The  founts  where  he  drank  by  the  wayside  still 

flow, 
And  the  same  airs  are  blowing  which  breathed  on 

his  brow ! 

And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusalem  yet, 
But  with  dust  on  her  forehead,  and  chains  on  her 

feet; 
For  the  crown  of  her  pride  to  the  mocker  hath 

And  the  holy  Shechinah  is  dark  where  it  shone. 

But  wherefore  this  dream  of  the  earthly  abode 
Of  Humanity  clothed  in  the  brightness  of  God  ? 
Were  my  spirit  but  turned  from  the  outward 

and  dim, 
It  could  gaze,  even  now,  on  the  presence  of  Him  ! 

Not  in  clouds  and  in  terrors,  but  gentle  as  when, 
In  love  and  in  meekness,  He  moved  among  men ; 
And  the  voice  which  breathed  peace  to  the  waves 

of  the  sea 
In  the  hush  of  my  spirit  would  whisper  to  me  ! 

And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread  where  He 

stood, 

Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Galilee's  flood, 
Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  He  bowed  him  to 

bear, 
Nor    my  knees    press    Gethsemane's  garden  of 

prayer. 

Yet,  Loved  of  the  Father,  thy  Spirit  is  near, 
To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  penitent  here  ; 
And  the  voice  of  thy  love  is  the  same  even  now 
As  at  Bethany's  tomb  or  on  Olivet's  brow. 

O,  the  outward  hath  gone  ! — but  in  glory  and 

power, 

The  SPIRIT  surviveth  the  things  of  an  hour ; 
Unchanged,  undecaying,  its  Pentecost  flame 
On  the  heart's  secret  altar  is  burning  the  same  ! 


EZEKIEL, 

CHAPTER   XXXIII.    30-33. 

THEY  hear  thee  not,  O  God  !  nor  see  ; 

Beneath  thy  rod  they  mock  at  thee  ; 

The  princes  of  our  ancient  line 

Lie  drunken  with  Assyrian  wine  ; 

The  priests  around  thy  altar  speak 

The  false  words  which  their  hearers  seek  ; 

And  hymns  which  Chaldea's  wanton  maids 

Have  sung  in  Dura's  idol-shades 

Are  with  the  Levites'  chant  ascending, 

With  Zion's  holiest  anthems  blending ! 

On  Israel's  bleeding  bosom  set, 

The  heathen  heel  is  crushing  yet ; 

The  towers  upon  our  holy  hill 

Echo  Chaldean  footsteps  still. 

Our  wasted  shrines, — who  weeps  for  them  ? 

Who  mourneth  for  Jerusalem  ? 

Who  turneth  from  his  gains  away  ? 

Whose  knee  with  mine  is  bowed  to  pray  ? 

Who,  leaving  feast  and  purpling  cup, 

Takes  Zion's  lamentation  up  ? 

A  sad  and  thoughtful  youth,  I  went 
With  Israel's  early  banishment ; 
And  where  the  sullen  Chebar  crept, 
The  ritual  of  my  fathers  kept. 
The  water  for  the  trench  I  drew, 
The  firstling  of  the  flock  I  slew, 
And,  standing  at  the  altar's  side, 
I  shared  the  Levites'  lingering  pride, 
That  still,  amidst  her  mocking  foes, 
The  smoke  of  Zion's  offering  rose. 

In  sudden  whirlwind,  cloud  and  flame, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Highest  came  ! 
Before  mine  eyes  a  vision  passed, 
A  glory  terrible  and  vast ; 
With  dreadful  eyes  of  living  things, 
And  sounding  sweep  of  angel  wings, 
With  circling  light  and  sapphire  throne, 
And  flame-like  form  of  One  thereon, 
And  voice  of  that  dread  Likeness  sent 
Down  from  the  crystal  firmament ! 

The  burden  of  a  prophet's  power 

Fell  on  me  in  that  fearful  hour  ; 

From  off  unutterable  woes 

The  curtain  of  the  future  rose  ; 

I  saw  far  down  the  coming  time 

The  fiery  chastisement  of  crime  ; 

With  noise  of  mingling  hosts,  and  jar 

Of  falling  towers  and  shouts  of  war, 

I  saw  the  nations  rise  and  fall, 

Like  fire-gleams  on  my  tent's  white  wall. 

In  dream  and  trance,  I  saw  the  slain 
Of  Egypt  heaped  like  harvest  grain. 
I  saw  the  walls  of  sea-born  Tyre 
Swept  over  by  the  spoiler's  fire  ; 
And  heard  the  low,  expiring  moan 
Of  Edom  on  his  rocky  throne  ; 
And,  woe  is  me  !  the  wild  lament 
From  Zion's  desolation  sent ; 
And  felt  within  my  heart  each  blow 
Which  laid  her  holy  places  low. 

In  bonds  and  sorrow,  day  by  day, 

Before  the  pictured  tile  I  lay  ; 

And  there,  as  in  a  mirror,  saw 

The  coming  of  Assyria's  war, — 

Her  swarthy  lines  of  spearmen  pass 

Like  locusts  through  Bethhoron's  grass ; 

I  saw  them  draw  their  stormy  hem 

Of  battle  round  Jerusalem  ; 

And,  listening,  heard  the  Hebrew  wail 

Blend  with  the  victor -trump  of  Baal ! 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 


Who  trembled  at  my  warning  word  ? 
Who  owned  the  prophet  of  the  Lord  ?   ' 
How  mocked  the  rude, — how  scoffed  the  vile, 
How  stung  the  Levites'  scornful  smile, 
As  o'er  my  spirit,  dark  and  slow, 
The  shadow  crept  of  Israel's  woe 
As  if  the  angel's  mournful  roll 
Had  left  its  record  on  my  soul, 
And  traced  in  lines  of  darkness  there 
The  picture  of  its  great  despair  ! 

Yet  ever  at  the  hour  I  feel 
My  lips  in  prophecy  unseal. 
Prince,  priest,  and  Levite  gather  near^ 
And  Salem's  daughters  haste  to  hear, 
On  Chebar's  waste  and  alien  shore, 
The  harp  of  Judah  swept  once  more. 
They  listen,  as  in  Babel's  throng 
The  Chaldeans  to  the  dancer's  song, 
Or  wild  sabbeka's  nightly  play, 
As  careless  and  as  vain  as  they. 


And  thus,  O  Prophet-bard  of  old, 
Hast  thou  thy  tale  of  sorrow  told  ! 
The  same  which  earth's  unwelcome  seers 
Have  felt  in  all  succeeding  years. 
Sport  of  the  changeful  multitude, 
Nor  calmly  heard  nor  understood, 
Their  song  has  seemed  a  trick  of  art, 
Their  warnings  but  the  actor's  part. 
With  bonds,  and  scorn,  and  evil  will, 
The  world  requites  its  prophets  still. 

So  was  it  when  the  Holy  One 
The  garments  of  the  flesh  put  on ! 
Men  followed  where  the  Highest  led 
For  common  gifts  of  daily  bread, 
And  gross  of  ear,  of  vision  dim, 
Owned  not  the  godlike  power  of  him. 
Vain  as  a  dreamer's  words  to  them 
His  wail  above  Jerusalem, 
And  meaningless  the  watch  he  kept 
Through  which  his  weak  disciples  slept. 

Yet  shrink  not  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
For  God's  great  purpose  set  apart, 
Before  whose  far-disoerning  eyes, 
The  Future  as  the  Present  lies  ! 
Beyond  a  narrow-bounded  age 
Stretches  thy  prophet-heritage, 
Through  Heaven's  dim  spaces  angel-trod, 
Through  arches  round  the  throne  of  God 
Thy  audience,  worlds  ! — all  Time  to  be 
The  witness  of  the  Truth  in  thee  ! 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH  TO  HER  HUS 
BAND. 

AGAINST  the  sunset's  glowing  wall 
The  city  towers  rise  black  and  tall, 
Where  Zorah,  on  its  rocky  height. 
Stands  like  an  armed  man  in  the  light. 

Down  Eshtaol's  vales  of  ripened  grain 
Falls  like  a  cloud  the  night  amain, 
And  up  the  hillsides  climbing  slow 
The  barley  reapers  homeward  go. 

Look,  dearest !  how  our  fair  child's  head 
The  sunset  light  hath  hallowed, 
Where  at  this  olive's  foot  he  lies, 
Uplooking  to  the  tranquil  skies. 

O,  while  beneath  the  fervent  heat 
Thy  sickle  swept  the  bearded  wheat, 
I  've  watched,  with  mingled  joy  and  dread, 
Our  child  upon  his  grassy  bed. 


Joy,  which  the  mother  feels  alone 
Whose  morning  hope  like  mine  had  flown, 
When  to  her  bosom,  over-blessed, 
A  dearer  life  than  hers  is  pressed. 

Dread,  for  the  future  dark  and  still, 
Which  shapes  our  dear  one  to  its  will ; 
Forever  in  his  large  calm  eyes, 
I  read  a  tale  of  sacrifice. — 

The  same  foreboding  awe  I  felt 

When  at  the  altar's  side  we  knelt, 

And  he,  who  as  a  pilgrim  came, 

Rose,  winged  and  glorious,  through  the  flame. 

I  slept  not,  though  the  wild  bees  made 
A  dreamlike  murmuring  in  the  shade, 
And  on  me  the  warm-fingered  hours 
Pressed  with  the  drowsy  smell  of  flowers. 

Before  me,  in  a  vision,  rose 
The  hosts  of  Israel's  scornful  foes,— 
Rank  over  rank,  helm,  shield,  and  spear, 
Glittered  in  noon's  hot  atmosphere. 

I  heard  their  boast,  and  bitter  word, 
Their  mockery  of  the  Hebrew's  Lord, 
I  saw  their  hands  his  ark  assail, 
Their  feet  profane  his  holy  veil. 

No  angel  down  the  blue  space  spoke, 
No  thunder  from  the  still  sky  broke ; 
But  in  their  midst,  in  power  and  awe, 
Like  God's  waked  wrath,  OUR  CHILD  I  saw  ! 

A  child  no  more ! — harsh-browed  and  strong, 
He  towered  a  giant  in  the  throng, 
And  down  his  shoulders,  broad  and  bare, 
Swept  the  black  terror  of  his  hair. 

He  raised  his  arm ;  he  smote  amain ; 
As  round  the  reaper  falls  the  grain, 
So  the  dark  host  around  him  fell, 
So  sank  the  foes  of  Israel ! 

Again  I  looked.     In  sunlight  shone 
The  towers  and  domes  of  Askelon. 
Priest,  warrior,  slave,  a  mighty  crowd, 
Within  her  idol  temple  bowed. 

Yet  one  knelt  not  ;  stark,  gaunt,  and  blind, 
His  arms  the  massive  pillars  twined, — 
An  eyeless  captive,  strong  with  hate, 
He  stood  there  like  an  evil  Fate. 

The  red  shrines  smoked, — the  trumpets  pealed 
He  stooped, — the  giant  columns  reeled, — 
Reeled  tower  and  fane,  sank  arch  and  wall, 
And  the  thick  dust-cloud  closed  o'er  all ! 

Above  the  shriek,  the  crash,  the  groan 
Of  the  fallen  pride  of  Askelon, 
I  heard,  sheer  down  the  echoing  sky, 
A  voice  as  of  an  angel  cry, — 

The  voice  of  him,  who  at  our  side 

Sat  through  the  golden  eventide, — 

Of  him  who,  on  thy  altar's  blaze, 

Rose  fire-winged,  with  his  song  of  praise. 

"  Rejoice  o'er  Israel's  broken  chain, 
Gray  mother  of  the  mighty  slain  ! 
Rejoice  !  "  it  cried,  "  he  vanquisheth  ! 
The  strong  in  life  is  strong  in  death  ! 

To  him  shall  Zorah' s  daughters  raise 
Through  coming  years  their  hymns  of  praise, 
And  gray  old  men  at  evening  tell 
Of  all  he  wrought  for  Israel. 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN.— THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 


u  And  they  who  sing  and  they  who  hear 
Alike  shall  hold  thy  memory  dear, 
And  pour  their  blessings  on  thy  head, 

0  mother  of  the  mighty  dead  !  " 

It  ceased  ;  and  though  a  sound  I  heard 
As  if  great  wings  the  still  air  stirred, 

1  only  saw  the  barley  sheaves 
And  hills  half  hid  by  olive  leaves. 

I  bowed  my  face,  in  awe  and  fear, 
On  the  dear  child  who  slumbered  near. 
' '  With  me,  as  with  my  only  son, 
O  God,"  I  said,  "  THY  WILL,  BE  DONE  !  " 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE   PLAIN. 

"GET  ye  up  from  the  wrath  of   God's  terrible 

day! 

Ungirded,  uneandalled,  arise  and  away  ! 
'Tis  the  vintage  of  blood,  'tis  the  fulness  of  time, 
And     vengeance    shall    gather    the    harvest   of 


The  warning  was  spoken  ;  the  righteous  had  gone, 
And  the  proud  ones  of  Sodom  were  feasting  alone  ; 
All  gay  was  the  banquet  ;  the  revel  was  long, 
With  the  pouring  of  wine  and  the  breathing  of 
song. 

'T  was  an  evening  of  beauty  ;  the  air  was  perfume, 
The  earth  was  all  greenness,  the  trees  were  all 

bloom  ; 

And  softly  the  delicate  viol  was  heard, 
Like  the  murmur  of  love  or  the  notes  of  a  bird. 

And  beautiful  maidens  moved  down  in  the  dance, 
With  the  magic  of  motion  and  sunshine  of  glance  ; 
And  white  arms  wreathed  lightly,  and  tresses 

fell  free 
As  the  plumage  of  birds  in  some  tropical  tree. 

Where  the  shrines  of  foul  idols  were  lighted  on 
high, 


And  wantonness  tempted  the  lust  of  the  eye  ; 
rites  of  obsceneness  strane  loathso 
abhorred, 


Midst  rites  of  obsceneness,  strange,   loasome, 

abhorred, 
The  blasphemer  scoffed  at  the  name  of  the  Lord. 


Hark  !  the  growl  of  the  thunder,—  the  quaking 

of  earth  ! 

Woe,  woe  to  the  worship,  and  woe  to  the  mirth  ! 
The    black    sky  has    opened,  —  there  's  flame  in 

the  air,  — 
The  red  arm  of  vengeance  is  lifted  and  bare  ! 

Then  the  shriek  of  the  dying  rose  wild  where  the 

song 
And  the  low  tone  of  love  had   been  whispered 

along  ; 
For   the  fierce  flames  went  lightly  o'er   palace 

and  bower, 
Like  the  red  tongues  of  demons,  to  blast  and  de 

vour  ! 

Down,—  down  on  the  fallen  the  red  ruin  rained, 
And  the  reveller   sank  with    his  wine-cup    un- 

drained  ; 

The  foot  of  the  dancer,  the  music's  loved  thrill, 
And  the  shout  and  the  laughter  grew  suddenly 

The  last  throb  of  anguish  was  fearfully  given  ; 
The   last  eye    glared    forth  in    its  madness  on 

Heaven  ! 

The  last  groan  of  horror  rose  wildly  and  vain, 
And  death  brooded  over  the  pride  of  the  Plain  ! 


THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

SUNLIGHT  upon  Judaea's  hills  ! 

And  on  the  waves  of  Galilee, — 
On  Jordan's  stream,  and  on  the  rills 

That  feed  the  dead  and  sleeping  sea  ! 
Most  freshly  from  the  green  wood  springs 
The  light  breeze  on  its  scented  wings  ; 
And  gayly  quiver  in  the  sun 
The  cedar  tops  of  Lebanon  ! 

A  few  more  hours, — a  change  hath  come  ! 

The  sky  is  dark  without  a  cloud ! 
The  shouts  of  wrath  and  joy  are  dumb, 

And  proud  knees  unto  earth  are  bowed. 
A  change  is  on  the  hill  of  Death, 
The  helmed  watchers  pant  for  breath, 
And  turn  with  wild  and  maniac  eyes 
From  the  dark  scene  of  sacrifice ! 

That  Sacrifice  !— the  death  of  Him,— 

The  High  and  ever  Holy  One  ! 
Well  may  the  conscious  Heaven  grow  dim, 

And  blacken  the  beholding  Sun. 
The  wonted  light  hath  fled  away, 
Night  settles  on  the  middle  day, 
And  earthquake  from  his  caverned  bed 
Is  waking  with  a  thrill  of  dread  ! 

The  dead  are  waking  underneath ! 

Their  prison  door  is  rent  away  ! 
And,  ghastly  with  the  seal  of  death, 

They  wander  in  the  eye  of  day  ! 
The  temple  of  the  Cherubim, 
The  House  of  God  is  cold  and  dim  ; 
A  curse  is  on  its  trembling  walls, 
.Its  mighty  veil  asunder  falls  ! 

Well  may  the  cavern-depths  of  Earth 

Be  shaken,  and  her  mountains  nod ; 

Well  may  the  sheeted  dead  come  forth 

To  gaze  upon  a  suffering  God  ! 
Well  'may  the  temple-  shrine  grow  dim, 
And  shadows  veil  the  Cherubim, 
When  He,  the  chosen  one  of  Heaven, 
A  sacrifice  for  guilt  is  given  ! 

And  shall  the  sinful  heart,  alone, 

Behold  unmoved  the  atoning  hour, 
When  Nature  trembles  on  her  throne, 
And  Death  resigns  his  iron  power  ? 
O,  shall  the  heart — whose  sinfulness 
Gave  keenness  to  his  sore  distress, 
And  added  to  his  tears  of  blood- 
Refuse  its  trembling  gratitude  !          , 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

WHERE  Time  the  measure  of  his  hours 
By  changeful  bud  and  blossom  keeps, 

And,  like  a  young  bride  crowned  with  flowers, 
Fair  Shiraz  in  her  garden  sleeps  ; 

Where,  to  her  poet's  turban  stone, 
The  Spring  her  gift  of  flowers  imparts, 

Less  sweet  than  those  his  thoughts  have  sown 
In  the  warm  soil  of  Persian  hearts : 

There  sat  the  stranger,  where  the  shade 
Of  scattered  date-trees  thinly  lay, 

While  in  the  hot  clear  heaven  delayed 
The  long  and  still  and  weary  day. 

Strange  trees  and  fruits  above  him  hung, 
Strange  odors  filled  the  sultry  air, 

Strange  birds  upon  the  branches  swung. 
Strange  insect  voices  murmured  there. 


70 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM.— HYMNS. 


And  strange  bright  blossoms  shone  around, 
Turned  sunward  from  the  shadowy  bowers, 

As  if  the  Gheber's  soul  had  found 
A  fitting  home  in  Iran's  flowers. 

Whatever  he  saw,  whatever  he  heard, 
Awakened  feelings  new  and  sad, — 

No  Christian  garb,  nor  Christian  word, 
Nor  church  with  Sabbath-bell  chimes  glad, 

But  Moslem  graves,  with  turban  stones, 

And  mosque-spires  gleaming  white,  in  view, 

And  graybeard  Mollahs  in  low  tones 
Chanting  their  Koran  service  through. 

The  flowers  which  smiled  on  either  hand, 
Like  tempting  fiends,  were  such  as  they 

Which  once,  o'er  all  that  Eastern  land, 
As  gifts  on  demon  altars  lay. 

As  if  the  burning  eye  of  Baal 

The  servant  of  his  Conqueror  knew, 

From  skies  which  knew  no  cloudy  veil, 
The  Sun's  hot  glances  smote  him  through. 

"  Ah  me  !  "  the  lonely  stranger  said, 
"  The  hope  which  led  my  footsteps  on, 

And  light  from  heaven  around  them  shed, 
O'er  weary  wave  and  waste,  is  gone  ! 

lt  Where  are  the  harvest  fields  all  white, 
For  Truth  to  thrust  her  sickle  in  ? 

Where  flock  the  souls,  like  doves  in  flight, 
From  the  dark  hiding-place  of  sin  ? 

11  A  silent  horror  broods  o'er  all, — 

The  burden  of  a  hateful  spell,— 
The  very  flowers  around  recall 

The  hoary  magi's  rites  of  hell ! 

u  And  what  am  I,  o'er  such  a  land 
The  banner  of  the  Cross  to  bear  ? 

Dear  Lord,  uphold  me  with  thy  hand, 

Thy  strength  with  human  weakness  share  ! ' 

He  ceased ;  for  at  his  very  feet 

In  mild  rebuke  a  floweret  smiled, — 

How  thrilled  his  sinking  heart  to  greet 
The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin's  child  ! 

Sown  by  some  wandering  Frank,  it  drew 

Its  life  from  alien  air  and  earth, 
And  told  to  Paynim  sun  and  dew 

The  story  of  the  Saviour's  birth. 

From  scorching  beams,  in  kindly  mood, 
The  Persian  plants  its  beauty  screened, 

And  on  its  pagan  sisterhood, 

In  love,  the  Christian  floweret  leaned. 

With  tears  of  joy  the  wanderer  felt 
The  darkness  of  his  long  despair 

Before  that  hallowed  symbol  melt, 

Which  God's  dear  love  had  nurtured  there. 

From  Nature's  face,  that  simple  flower 
The  lines  of  sin  and  sadness  swept ; 

And  Magian  pile  and  Paynim  bower 
In  peace  like  that  of  Eden  slept. 

Each  Moslem  tomb,  and  cypress  old, 
Looked  holy  through  the  sunset  air ; 

And,  angel-like,  the  Muezzin  told 

From  tower  and  mosque  the  hour  of  prayer. 

With  cheerful  steps,  the  morrow's  dawn 
From  Shiraz  saw  the  stranger  part ; 

The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin-Born 
Still  blooming  in  his  hopeful  heart ! 


HYMNS. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF   LAMARTLNE. 

ONE  hymn  more,  O  my  lyre  ! 

Praise  to  the  God  above, 

Of  joy  and  life  and  love, 
Sweeping  its  strings  of  fire  ! 

0,  who  the  speed  of  bird  and  wind 

And  sunbeam's  glance  will  lend  to  me, 
?hat,  soaring  upward,  I  may  find 

My  resting-place  and  home  in  Thee  ? — 
?hou,  whom  my  soul,  midst  doubt  and  gloom, 

Adoreth  with  a  fervent  flame, — 
Vtysteripus  spirit !  unto  whom 

Pertain  nor  sign  nor  name  ! 

Swiftly  my  lyre's  soft  murmurs  go, 

Up  from  the  cold  and  joyless  earth, 
Back  to  the  God  who  bade  them  flow, 

Whose  moving  spirit  sent  them  forth. 
But  as  for  me,  O  God  !  for  me, 

The  lowly  creature  of  thy  will, 
"lingering  and  sad,  I  sigh  to  thee, 

An  earth-bound  pilgrim  still ! 

Was  not  my  spirit  born  to  shine 

Where  yonder  stars  and  suns  are  glowing ? 
To  breathe  with  them  the  light  divine 

From  God's  own  holy  altar  flowing  ? 
To  be,  indeed,  whate'er  the  soul 

In  dreams  hath  thirsted  for  so  long,— 
A  portion  of  Heaven's  glorious  whole 

Of  loveliness  and  song  ? 

O,  watchers  of  the  stars  at  night, 

Who  breathe  their  fire,  as  we  the  air,— 
Suns,  thunders,  stars,  and  rays  of  light, 

O,  say,  is  He,  the  Eternal,  there  ? 
Bend  there  around  his  awful  throne 

The  seraph's  glance,  the  angel's  knee  ? 
Or  are  thy  inmost  depths  his  own, 

O  wild  and  mighty  sea  ? 

Thoughts  of  my  soul,  how  swift  ye  go  ! 

Swift  as  the  eagle's  glance  of  fire, 
Or  arrows  from  the  archer's  bow, 

To  the  far  aim  of  your  desire  ! 
Thought  after  thought,  ye  thronging  rise, 

Like  spring-doves  from  the  startled  wood, 
Bearing  like  them  your  sacrifice 

Of  music  unto  God  ! 

And  shall  these  thoughts  of  joy  and  love 

Come  back  again  no  more  to  me  ? — 
Returning  like  the  Patriarch's  dove 

Wing-weary  from  the  eternal  sea, 
To  bear  within  my  longing  arms 

The  promise-bough  of  kindlier  skies, 
Plucked  from  the  green,  immortal  palms 

Which  shadow  Paradise  ? 

All-moving  spirit !— freely  forth 

At  thy  command  the  strong  wind  goes  : 
Its  errand  to  the  passive  earth, 

Nor  art  can  stay,  nor  strength  oppose, 
Until  it  folds  its  weary  wing 

Once  more  within  the  hand  divine  ; 
So.  weary  from  its  wandering, 

My  spirit  turns  to  thine  ! 

Child  of  the  sea,  the  mountain  stream, 

From  its  dark  caverns,  hurries  on, 
Ceaseless,  by  night  and  morning's  beam, 

By  evening's  star  and  noontide's  sun, 
Until  at  last  it  sinks  to  rest, 

O'erwearied,  in  the  waiting  sea, 
And  moans  upon  its  mother's  breast,— 

So  turns  my  soul  to  Thee ! 


HYMNS.— THE  FEMALE  MARTYR. 


71 


O  Thou  who  bidd'st  the  torrent  flow, 

Who  lendest  wings  unto  the  wind, — 
Mover  of  all  things  !  where  art  thou  ? 

O,  whither  shall  I  go  to  find 
The  secret  of  thy  resting-place  ? 

Is  there  no  holy  wing  for  me, 
That,  soaring,  I  may  search  the  space 

Of  highest  heaven  for  Thee  ? 

O,  would  I  were  as  free  to  rise  . 

As  leaves  on  autumn's  whirlwind  borne, — 
The  arrowy  light  of  sunset  skies, 

Or  sound,  or  ray,  or  star  of  morn, 
Which  melts  in  heaven  at  twilight's  close, 

Or  aught  which  soars  unchecked  and  free 
Through  Earth  and  Heaven  ;  that  I  might  lose 

Myself  in  finding  Thee  ! 


WHEN  the  BREATH  DIVINE  is  flowing, 
Zephyr -like  o'er  all  things  going, 
And,  as  the  touch  of  viewless  fingers, 
Softly  on  my  soul  it  lingers, 
Open  to  a  breath  the  lightest, 
Conscious  of  a  touch  the  slightest, — 
As  some  calm,  still  lake,  whereon 
Sinks  the  snowy-bosomed  swan, 
And  the  glistening  water-rings 
Circle  round  her  moving  wings  : 
When  my  upward  gaze  is  turning 
Where  the  stars  of  heaven  are  burning 
Through  the  deep  and  dark  abyss, — 
Flowers  of  midnight's  wilderness, 
Blowing  with  the  evening's  breath 
Sweetly  in  their  Maker's  path : 

When  the  breaking  clay  is  flushing 
All  tne  east,  and  light  is  gushing 
Upward  through  the  horizon's  haze, 
Sheaf -like,  with  its  thousand  rays, 
Spreading,  until  all  above 
Overflows  with  joy  and  love, 
And  below,  on  earth's  green  bosom, 
All  is  changed  to  light  and  blossom : 

When  my  waking  fancies  over 
Forms  of  brightness  flit  and  hover, 
Holy  as  the  seraphs  are, 
Who  by  Zion's  fountains  wear 
On  their  foreheads,  white  and  broad, 
"  HOLINESS  UNTO  THE  LORD  !  " 
When,  inspired  with  rapture  high, 
It  would  seem  a  single  sigh 
Could  a  world  of  love  create, — 
That  my  life  could  know  no  date, 
And  my  eager  thoughts  could  fill 
Heaven  and  Earth,  o'erflowing  still  i — 

Then,  O  Father  !  thou  alone, 

From  the  shadow  of  thy  throne, 

To  the  sighing  of  my  breast 

And  its  rapture  answerest. 

All  my  thoughts,  which,  upward  winging, 

Bathe  where  thy  own  light  is  springing, — 

All  my  yearnings  to  be  free 

Are  as  echoes  answering  thee  ! 

Seldom  upon  lips  of  mine, 

Father  !  rests  that  name  of  tiling  — 

Deep  within  my  inmost  breast, 
In  the  secret  place  of  mind, 
Like  an  awful  presence  shrined, 

Doth  the  dread  idea  rest  ! 

Hushed  and  holy  dwells  it  there, — 

Prompter  of  the  silent  prayer, 

Lifting  up  my  spirit's  eye 

And  its  faint,  but  earnest  cry, 

From  its  dark  and  cold  abode, 

Unto  thee,  my  Guide  and  God  ! 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR. 

[MARY  G ,  aged  18,  a  "  SISTER  OF  CHARITY,"  died 

in  one  of  our  Atlantic  cities,  during  the  prevalence  of 
the  Indian  cholera,  while  in  voluntary  attendance  upon 
the  sick.] 

"BRING  out  your  dead  !  "    The  midnight  street 
Heard  and  gave  back  the  hoarse,  low  call ; 

Harsh  fell  the  tread  of  hasty  feet,— 

Glanced    through    the  dark    the    coarse    white 

sheet, — 
Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 

"What— only  one  !  "  the  brutal  hackman  said, 

As,  with  an  oath,  he  spurned  away  the  dead. 

How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 
As  rolled  that  dead-cart  slowly  by, 

With  creaking  wheel  and  harsh  hoof-fall ! 

The  dying  turned  him  to  the  wall, 
To  hear  it  and  to  die  ! — 

Onward  it  rolled  ;  while  oft  its  driver  stayed, 

And  hoarsely  clamored,   u  Ho  ! — bring  out  your 
dead." 

It  paused  beside  the  burial-place  ; 

"  Toss  in  your  load  !  " — and  it  was  done. — 
With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 
Hastily  to  the  grave's  embrace 

They  cast  them,  one  by  one, — 
Stranger  and  friend, — the  evil  and  the  just, 
Together  trodden  in  the  churchyard  dust ! 

And  thou,  young  martyr  ! — thou  wast  there, — 

No  white-robed  sisters  round  thee  trod, — 
Nor  holy  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer 
Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome  air, 

Giving  thee  to  thy  God  ; 

Nor  flower,  nor  cross,  nor  hallowed  taper  gave 
Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the  grave  ! 

Yet,  gentle  sufferer  !  there  shall  be, 

In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 
A  rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 
As  if  beneath  the  con  vent -tree 

Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 
At  vesper  hours,  like  sorrowing  angels,  keeping 
Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place  of  sleeping. 

For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 

Of  Heaven's  own  love  was  kindled  well. 
Enduring  with  a  martyr's  might, 
Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night, 

Far  more  than  words  may  tell : 
Gentle,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  and  unknown, — 
Thy  mercies  measured  by  thy  God  alone  ! 

Where  manly  hearts  were  failing, — where 
The  throngf ul  street  grew  foul  with  death, 

O  high-souled  martyr  ! — thou  wast  there, 

Inhaling,  from  the  loathsome  air, 
Poison  with  every  breath. 

Yet  shrinking  not  from  offices  of  dread 

For  the  wrung  dying,  and  the  unconscious  dead. 

i  And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed 

Its  light  through  vapors,  damp,  confined. 

Hushed  as  a  seraph's  fell  thy  tread, — 

A  new  Electra  by  the  bed 
Of  suffering  human-kind  ! 

Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 

To  that  pure  hope  which  fadeth  not  away. 

Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 

And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven  ! 
How  turned  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 
In  mute  and  awful  sympathy, 

As  thy  low  prayers  weve  given  ; 
And  the  o'er-hovering  Spoiler  wore,  the  while, 
An  angel's  features, — a  deliverer's  smile  ' 


THE  FROST  SPIRIT. 


A  blessed  task  ! — and  worthy  one 

Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as  thou, 
Before  life's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  spring-time  flower  and  sun, 

Had  sealed  her  early  vow  ; 
Giving  to  God  her  beauty  and  her  youth, 
Her  pure  affections  and  her  guileless  truth. 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee.     Nothing  here 

Could  be  for  thee  a  meet  reward  ; 
Thine  is  a  treasure  far  more  dear, — 
Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 

Of  living  mortal  heard, — 

The  joys  prepared, — the  promised  bliss  above,— 
The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love  ! 

Sleep  on  in  peace.     The  earth  has  not 
A  nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 

The  deeds  by  martial  manhood  wrought, 

The  lofty  energies  of  thought, 
The  fire  of  poesy, — 

These  have  but  frail  and  fading  honors  ; — thine 

Shall  Time  unto  Eternity  consign. 

Yea,  and  when  thrones  shall  crumble  down, 
And  human  pride  and  grandeur  fall, — 

The  herald's  line  of  long  renown, — 

The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown, — 
Perishing  glories  all ! 

The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous  heart 

Shall  live  in  Heaven,  of  which  it  was  a  part. 


THE   FROST    SPIRIT. 


He  has  smitten  the  leaves  of  the  gray  old  trees 
where  their  pleasant  green  came  forth, 

And  the  winds,  which  follow  wrherever  he  goes, 
have  shaken  them  down  to  earth. 


i  He  comes, — he  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  ! 

— from  the  frozen  Labrador, — 
;  From  the  icy  bridge  of  the  Northern  seas,  which 

the  white  bear  wanders  o'er, — 
Where  the  fisherman's  sail  is  stiff  with  ice,  and 

the  luckless  forms  below 

In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  lingering  night  into 
marble  statues  grow  ! 

He  comes, — he  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  ! — 

on  the  rushing  Northern  blast, 
i  And  the  dark  Norwegian  pines  have  bowed  as  his 

fearful  breath  went  past. 
With   an   unscorched   wing    he   has   hurried   on, 

where  the  fires  of  Hecla  glow 
On  the  darkly  beautiful  sky  above  and  the  ancient 

ice  below. 


He  comes, — he  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  ! — 

and  the  quiet  lake  shall  feel 
The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath,  and  ring 

to  the  skater's  heel; 
And  the  streams  which   danced   on   the  broken 

rocks,  or  sang  to  the  leaning  grass, 
Shall  bow  again  to  their  winter  chain,    and  in 

mournful  silence  pass. 

He  comes, — he  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  ! — 

let  us  meet  him  as  we  may, 
And  turn  with  the  light  of  the  parlor-fire  his  evil 

power  away ; 


HE  comes, — he  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes  !  j  And  gather  closer  the  circle  round,  when  that  fire- 


You  may  trace  his  footsteps  now 
On  the  naked  woods  and  the  blasted  fields  and 
the  brown  hill's  withered  brow. 


light  dances  high, 
And  laugh  at  the  shriek  of  the  baffled  Fiend  as 
his  sounding  wing  goes  by  ! 


•  The  rushing  Northern  blast.' 


THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER.— MY  SOUL  AND  I. 


THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER.38 

UO  LADY  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are  beautiful 

and  rare, — 
The  richest  web    of    the    Indian    loom,    which 

beauty's  queen  might  wear  ; 
And  my  pearls  are  pure  as  thy  own  fair  neck, 

with  whose  radiant  light  they  vie ; 
I  have  brought  them  with  me  a  weary  way, — will 

my  gentle  lady  buy  ?  " 

And  the  lady  smiled  on  the  worn  old  man  through 

the  dark  and  clustering  curls 
Which  veiled  her  brow  as  she  bent  to  view  his 

silks  and  glittering  pearls  ; 
And  she  placed  their  price  in  the  old  man's  hand, 

and  lightly  turned  away, 
But  she  paused  at  the  wanderer's  earnest  call, — 

u  My  gentle  lady,  stay  !  " 

"  O  lady  fair,  I  have  yet  a  gem  which  a  purer 
lustre  flings, 

Than  the  diamond  flash  of  the  jewelled  crown  on 
the  lofty  brow  of  kings, — 

A  wonderful  pearl  of  exceeding  price,  whose  vir 
tue  shall  not  decay, 

Whose  light  shall  be  as  a  spell  to  thee  and  a 
blessing  on  thy  way  !  " 

The  lady  glanced  at  the  mirroring  steel  where  her 

form  of  grace  was  seen, 
Where  her  eye  shone  clear,  and  her  dark  locks 

waved  their  clasping  pearls  between ; 
"Bring  forth  thy  pearl  of  exceeding  worth,  thou 

traveller  gray  and  old, — 
And  name  the  price  of  thy  precious  gem,  and  my 

page  shall  count  thy  gold." 

The  cloud  went  off  from  the  pilgrim's  brow,  as  a 

small  and  meagre  book, 
Unchased  with  gold  or  gem  of  cost,  from  his 

folding  robe  he  took ! 
"Here,  lady  fair,  is  the  pearl  of  price,  may  it 

prove  as  such  to  thee  ! 
Nay — keep  thy  gold — I  ask  it  not,  for  the  word  of 

God  is  free  !  " 

The  hoary  traveller  went  his  way,  but  the  gift  he 
left  behind 

Hath  had  its  pure  and  perfect  work  on  that  high 
born  maiden's  mind, 

And  she  hath  turned  from  the  pride  of  sin  to  the 
lowliness  of  truth, 

And  given  her  human  heart  to  God  in  its  beauti 
ful  hour  of  youth  ! 

And  she  hath  left  the  gray  old  halls,  where  an 

evil  faith  had  power, 
The  courtly  knights  of  her  father's  train,  and  the 

maidens  of  her  bower ; 
And  she  hath  gone  to  the  Vaudois  vales  by  lordly 

feet  untrod, 
Where  the  poor  and  needy  of  earth  are  rich  in  the 

perfect  love  of  God  ! 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

NOT  always  as  the  whirlwind's  rush 

On  Horeb's  mount  of  fear, 
Not  always  as  the  burning  bush 

To  Midian's  shepherd  seer, 
Nor  as  the  awful  voice  which  came 

To  Israel's  prophet  bards, 
Nor  as  the  tongues  of  cloven  flame, 

Nor  gift  of  fearful  words, — 


Not  always  thus,  with  outward  sign 

Of  fire  or  voice  from  Heaven, 
The  message  of  a  truth  divine, 

The  call  of  God  is  given  ! 
Awaking  in  the  human  heart 

Love  for  the  true  and  right, — 
Zeal  for  the  Christian's  better  part, 

Strength  for  the  Christian's  fight. 

Nor  unto  manhood's  heart  alone 

The  holy  influence  steals  : 
Warm  with  a  rapture  not  its  own, 

The  heart  of  woman  feels  ! 
As  she  who  by  Samaria's  wall 

The  Saviour's  errand  sought, — 
As  those  who  with  the  fervent  Paul 

And  meek  Aquila  wrought : 

Or  those  meek  ones  whose  martyrdom 

Rome's  gathered  grandeur  saw  : 
Or  those  who  in  their  Alpine  home 

Braved  the  Crusader's  war, 
When  the  green  Vaudois,  trembling,  heard, 

Through  all  its  vales  of  death, 
The  martyr's  song  of  triumph  poured 

From  woman's  failing  breath. 

And  gently,  by  a  thousand  things 

Which  o'er  our  spirits  pass, 
Like  breezes  o'er  the  harp's  fine  strings^ 

Or  vapors  o'er  a  glass, 
Leaving  their  token  strange  and  new 

Of  music  or  of  shade, 
The  summons  to  the  right  and  true 

And  merciful  is  made. 

O,  then,  if  gleams  of  truth  and  light 

Flash  o'er  thy  waiting  mind, 
Unfolding  to  thy  mental  sight  v 

The  wants  of  human-kind  ; 
If,  brooding  over  human  grief, 

The  earnest  wish  is  known 
To  soothe  and  gladden  with  relief 

An  anguish  not  thine  own ; 

Though  heralded  with  naught  of  fear, 

Or  outward  sign  or  show  ; 
Though  only  to  the  inward  ear 

It  whispers  soft  and  low ; 
Though  dropping,  as  the  manna  fell, 

Unseen,  yet  from  above, 
Noiseless  as  dew-fall,  heed  it  well, — 

Thy  Father's  call  of  love  ! 


MY  SOUL  AND  I. 

STAND  still,  my  soul,  in  the  silent  dark 

I  would  question  thee, 
Alone  in  the  shadow  drear  and  stark 

With  God  and  me  ! 

What,  my  soul,  was  thy  errand  here  ? 

Was  it  mirth  or  ease, 
Or  heaping  up  dust  from  year  to  year  ? 

"Nay,  none  of  these  !" 

Speak,  soul,  aright  in  His  holy  sight 

Whose  eye  looks  still 
And  steadily  on  thee  through  the  night : 

"To  do  his  will !" 

What  hast  thou  done,  O  soul  of  mine, 

That  thou  tremblest  so  y — 
Hast  thou  wrought  his  task,  and  kept  the  line 

He  bade  thee  go  V 

What,  silent  all !—  art  sad  of  cheer  ? 
Art  fearful  now  ? 


74 


MY  SOUL  AND  I. 


When  God  seemed  far  and  men  were  near, 
How  brave  wert  thou  ! 

Aha  !   thou  tremblest ! — well  I  see 

Thou  'rt  craven  grown. 
Is  it  so  hard  with  God  and  me 

To  stand  alone  ?— 

Summon  thy  sunshine  bravery  back, 

0  wretched  sprite  ! 

Let  me  hear  thy  voice  through  this  deep  and  black 
Abysmal  night. 

What  hast  thou  wrought  for  Right  and  Truth, 

For  God  and  Man, 
From  the  golden  hours  of  bright-eyed  youth 

To  life's  mid  span  ? 

Ah,  soul  of  mine,  thy  tones  I  hear, 

But  weak  and  low, 
Like  far  sad  murmurs  on  my  ear 

They  come  and  go. 

*'  I  have  wrestled  stoutly  with  the  Wrong, 
And  borne  the  Right 

beneath  the  footfall  of  the  throng 
To  life  and  light. 

u  Wherever  Freedom  shivered  a  chain, 

God  speed,  quoth  I ; 
To  Error  amidst  her  shouting  train 

1  gave  the  lie." 

Ah,  soul  of  mine  !  ah,  soul  of  mine  ! 

Thy  deeds  are  well : 

Were    they  wrought    for  Truth's    sake    or  for 
thine? 

My  soul,  pray  tell. 

"  Of  all  the  work  my  hand  hath  wrought 

Beneath  the  sky, 
Save  a  place  in  kindly  human  thought, 

No  gain  have  I." 

Go  to,  go  to  ! — for  thy  very  self 

Thy  deeds  were  done  : 
Thou  for  fame,  the  miser  for  pelf, 

Your  end  is  one  ! 

And  where  art  thou  going,  soul  of  mine  ? 

Canst  see  the  end  ? 
And  whither  this  troubled  life  of  thine 

Evermore  doth  tend  ? 

What  daunts  thee  now  V — what  shakes  thee  so  ? 

My  sad  soul  say. 
"  I  see  a  cloud  like  a  curtain  low 

Hang  o'er  my  way. 

"  Whither  I  go  I  cannot  tell : 

That  cloud  hangs  black, 
High  as  the  heaven  and  deep  as  hell 

Across  my  track. 

"  I  see  its  shadow  coldly  enwrap 

•The  souls  before. 
Sadly  they  enter  it,  step  by  step, 

To  return  no  more. 

' '  They   shrink,  they  shudder,  dear  God  !   they 
kneel 

To  thee  in  prayer. 
They  shut  their  eyes  on  the  cloud,  but  feel 

That  it  still  is  there. 

u  In  vain  they  turn  from  the  dread  Before 

To  the  Known  and  Gone ; 
For  while  gazing  behind  them  evermore 

Their  feet  glide  on. 


u  Yet,  at  times,  1  see  upon  sweet  pale  faces 

A  light  begin 
To  tremble,  as  if  from  holy  places 

And  shrines  within. 

"And  at  times  methinks  their  cold  lips  move 

With  hymn  and  prayer, 
As  if  somewhat  of  awe,  but  more  of  love 

And  hope  were  there. 

"  I  call  on  the  souls  who  have  left  the  light 

To  reveal  their  lot ; 
I  bend  mine  ear  to  that  wall  of  night, 

And  they  answer  not. 

' '  But  I  hear  around  me  sighs  of  pain 

And  the  cry  of  fear, 
And  a  sound  like  the  slow  sad  dropping  of  rain, 

Each  drop  a  tear  ! 

"  Ah,  the  cloud  is  dark,  and  day  by  day 

I  am  moving  thither  : 
I  must  pass  beneath  it  on  my  way — 

God  pity  me  ! — WHITHER  ?  " 

Ah,  soul  of  mine  !  so  brave  and  wise 

In  the  life-storm  loud, 
Fronting  so  calmly  all  human  eyes 

In  the  sunlit  crowd  ! 

Now  standing  apart  with  God  and  me 

Thou  art  weakness  all, 
Gazing  vainly  after  the  things  to  be 

Through  Death's  dread  wall. 

But  never  for  this,  never  for  this 
Was  thy  being  lent ; 

For  the  craven's  fear  is  but  selfishness- 
Like  his  merriment. 

Folly  and  Fear  are  sisters  twain : 

One  closing  her  eyes, 
The  other  peopling  the  dark  inane 

With  spectral  lies. 

Know  well,  my  soul,  God's  hand  controls 

Whate'er  thou  f earest ; 
Round  him  in  calmest  music  rolls 

Whate'er  thou  hearest. 

What  to  thee  is  shadow,  to  him  is  day, 

And  the  end  he  knoweth, 
And  not  on  a  blind  and  aimless  way 

The  spirit  goeth. 

Man  sees  no  future, — a  phantom  show 

Is  alone  before  him  : 
Past  Time  is  dead,  and  the  grasses  grow, 

And  flowers  bloom  o'er  him. 

Nothing  before,  nothing  behind ; 

The  steps  of  Faith 
Fall  on  the  seeming  void,  and  find 

The  rock  beneath. 

j  The  Present,  the  Present  is  all  thou  hast 

For  thy  sure  possessing ; 
Like  the  patriarch's  angel  hold  it  fast 
Till  it  gives  its  blessing. 

:  Why  fear  the  night  ?   why  shrink  from  Death, 

That  phantom  wan  ? 
|  There  is  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  beneath 

Save  God  and  man. 

Peopling  the  shadows  we  turn  from  Him 

And  from  one  another ; 
All  is  spectral  and  vague  and  dim 

Save  God  and  our  brother  ! 


TO  A  FRIEND. 


"Rhine-stream,  by  castle  old.' 


Like  warp  and  woof  all  destinies 

Are  woven  fast, 
Linked  in  sympathy  like  the  keys 

Of  an  organ  vast. 

Pluck  one  thread,  and  the  web  ye  mar ; 

Break  but  one 
Of  a  thousand  keys,  and  the  paining  jar 

Through  all  will  run. 

O  restless  spirit !  wherefore  strain 

Beyond  thy  sphere  V 
Heaven  and  hell,  with  their  joy  and  pain, 

Are  now  and  here. 

Back  to  thyself  is  measured  well 

All  thou  hast  given  ; 
Thy  neighbor's  wrong  is  thy  present  hell, 

His  bliss,  thy  heaven. 

And  in  life,  in  death,  in  dark  and  light, 

All  are  in  God's  care  : 
Sound  the  black  abyss,  pierce  the  deep  of  night, 

And  he  is  there  ! 

All  which  is  real  now  remaineth, 

And  f  adeth  never  : 
The  hand  which  upholds  it  now  sustaineth 

The  soul  forever. 

Leaning  on  him,  make  with  reverent  meekness 

His  own  thy  will, 

And   with   strength  from  Him    shall  thy  utter 
weakness 

Life's  task  fulfil ; 

And  that  cloud  itself,  which  now  before  thee 

Lies  dark  in  view, 
Shall  with  beams  of  light  from  the  inner  glory 

Be  stricken  through. 

And  like  meadow  mist  through  autumn's  dawn 

Uprolling  thin, 
Its  thickest  folds  when  about  thee  drawn 

Let  sunlight  in.  . 

Then  of  what  is  to  be,  and  of  what  is  done, 

Why  queriest  thou  ? — 
The  past  and  the  time  to  be  are  one, 

And  both  are  NOW  ! 


TO  A  FRIEND, 

ON  HER  RETURN  FROM  EUROPE. 

How  smiled  the  land  of  France 
Under  thy  blue  eye's  glance, 

Light-hearted  rover ! 
Old  walls  of  chateaux  gray, 
Towers  of  an  early  day, 
Which  the  Three  Colors  play 

Flauntingly  over. 

Now  midst  the  brilliant  train 
Thronging  the  banks  of  Seine  : 

Now  midst  the  splendor 
Of  the  wild  Alpine  range, 
Waking  with  change  on  change 
Thoughts  in  thy  young  heart  strange, 

Lovely,  and  tender. 

Vales,  soft  Elysian, 
Like  those  in  the  vision 

Of  Mirza,  when,  dreaming, 
He  saw  the  long  hollow  dell, 
Touched  by  the  prophet's  spell, 
Into  an  ocean  swell 

With  its  isles  teeming. 

Cliffs  wrapped  in  snows  of  years, 
Splintering  with  icy  spears 

Autumn's  blue  heaven : 
Loose  rock  and  frozen  slide, 
Hung  on  the  mountain-side, 
Waiting  their  hour  to  glide 

Downward,  storm-driven  ! 

Rhine-stream,  by  castle  old, 
Baron's  and  robber's  hold, 

Peacefully  flowing ; 
Sweeping  through  vineyards  green, 
Or  where  the  cliffs  are  seen 
O'er  the  broad  wave  between 

Grim  shadows  throwing. 

Or,  where  St.  Peter's  dome 
Swells  o'er  eternal  Rome, 

Vast,  dim,  and  solemn, — 
Hymns  ever  chanting  low, — 
Censers  swung  to  and  fro, — 
Sable  stoles  sweeping -slow 

Cornice  and  column  ! 


76 


THE  ANGEL  OF  PATIENCE.— FOLLEN. 


O,  as  from  each  and  all 
Will  there  not  voices  call 

Evermore  back  again  ? 
In  the  mind's  gallery 
YVilt  thou  not  always  see 
Dim  phantoms  beckon  thee 

O'er  that  old  track  again  ? 

New  forms  thy  presence  haunt, — 
New  voices  softly  chant, — 

New  faces  greet  thee  ! — 
Pilgrims  from  many  a  shrine 
Hallowed  by  poet's  line, 
At  memory's  magic  sign, 

Rising  to  meet  thee. 

And  when  such  visions  come 
Unto  thy  olden  home, 

Will  they  not  waken 
Deep  thoughts  of  Him  whose  hand 
Led  thee  o'er  sea  and  land 
Back  to  the  household  band 

Whence  thou  wast  taken  ? 

While,  at  the  sunset  time, 
Swells  the  cathedral's  chime, 

Yet,  in  thy  dreaming, 
While  to  thy  spirit's  eye 
Yet  the  vast  mountains  lie 
Piled  in  the  Switzer's  sky, 

Icy  and  gleaming  : 

Prompter  of  silent  prayer, 
Be  the  wild  picture  there 

In  the  mind's  chamber, 
And,  through  each  coming  day 
Him  who,  as  staff  and  stay, 
Watched  o'er  thy  wandering  way, 

Freshly  remember. 

So,  when  the  call  shall  be 
Soon  or  late  unto  thee, 

As  to  all  given, 
Still  may  that  picture  live, 
All  its  fair  forms  survive, 
And  to  thy  spirit  give 

Gladness  in  Heaven ! 


THE  ANGEL  OF  PATIENCE. 

A  FREE   PARAPHRASE   OF   THE   GERMAN. 

To  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes, 
God's  meekest  Angel  gently  comes : 
No  power  has  he  to  banish  pain, 
Or  give  us  back  our  lost  again  ; 
And  yet  in  tenderest  love,  our  dear 
And  Heavenly  Father  sends  him  here. 

There 's  quiet  in  that  Angel's  glance, 
There 's  rest  in  his  still  countenance  ! 
He  mocks  no  grief  with  idle  cheer, 
Nor  wounds  with  words  the  mourner's  ear 
But  ills  and  woes  he  may  not  cure 
He  kindly  trains  us  to  endure. 

Angel  of  Patience  !  sent  to  calm 
Our  feverish  brows  with  cooling  palm  ; 
To  lay  the  storms  of  hope  and  fear, 
And  reconcile  life's  smile  and  tear  ; 
The  throbs  of  wounded  pride  to  still, 
And  make  our  own  our  Father's  will ! 

O  thou  who  mournest  on  thy  way, 
With  longings  for  the  close  of  day  ; 
He  walks  with  thee,  that  Angel  kind, 
And  gently  whispers,  u  Be  resigned  : 
Bear  up,  bear  on,  the  end  shall  tell 
The  dear  Lord  ordereth  all  things  well  !  " 


FOLLEN. 

ON  READING  HIS  ESSAY  ON  THE  "FUTURE  STATE. " 

FRIEND  of  my  soul ! — as  with  moist  eye 
I  look  up  from  this  page  of  thine, 

Is  it  a  dream  that  thou  art  nigh, 
Thy  mild  face  gazing  into  mine  ? 

That  presence  seems  before  me  now, 
A  placid  heaven  of  sweet  moonrise, 

When,  dew-like,  on  the  earth  below 
Descends  the  quiet  of  the  skies. 

The  calm  brow  through  the  parted  hair, 
The  gentle  lips  which  knew  no  guile, 

Softening  the  blue  eye's  thoughtful  care 
With  the  bland  beauty  of  their  smile. 

Ah  me  ! — at  times  that  last  dread  scene 
Of  Frost  and  Fire  and  moaning  Sea, 

Will  cast  its  shade  of  doubt  between 
The  failing  eyes  of  Faith  and  thee. 

Yet,  lingering  o'er  thy  charmed  page, 
Where  through  the  twilight  air  of  earth, 

Alike  enthusiast  and  sage, 

Prophet  and  bard,  thou  gazest  forth  ; 

Lifting  the  Future's  solemn  veil ; 

The  reaching  of  a  mortal  hand 
To  put  aside  the  cold  and  pale 

Cloud-curtains  of  the  Unseen  Land  ; 

In  thoughts  which  answer  to  my  own, 
In  words  which  reach  my  inward  ear, 

Like  whispers  from  the  void  Unknown, 
I  feel  thy  living  presence  here. 

The  waves  which  lull  thy  body's  rest, 
The  dust  thy  pilgrim  footsteps  trod, 

Un wasted,  through  each  change,  attest 
The  fixed  economy  of  God. 

Shall  these  poor  elements  outlive 

The  mind  whose  kingly  will  they  wrought  ? 
Their  gross  unconsciousness  survive 

Thy  godlike  energy  of  thought  ? 

THOU  LIVEST,  FOLLEN  ! — not  in  vain 
Hath  thy  fine  spirit  meekly  borne 

The  burthen  of  Life's  cross  of  pain, 
And  the  thorned  crown  of  suffering  worn. 

O,  while  Life's  solemn  mystery  glooms 
Around  us  like  a  dungeon's  wall, — 

Silent  earth's  pale  and  crowded  tombs, 
Silent  the  heaven  which  bends  o'er  all ! 

While  day  by  day  our  loved  ones  glide 
In  spectral  silence,  hushed  and  lone, 

To  the  cold  shadows  which  divide 
The  living  from  the  dread  Unknown  ; 

While  even  on  the  closing  eye, 
And  on  the  lip  which  moves  in  vain, 

The  seals  of  that  stern  mystery 
Their  undiscovered  trust  retain  ; — 

And  only  midst  the  gloom  of  death, 

Its  mournful  doubts  and  haunting  fears, 

Two  pale,  sweet  angels,  Hope  and  Faith,   . 
Smile  dimly  on  us  through  their  tears  ; 

'T  is  something  to  a  heart  like  mine 

To  think  of  thee  as  living  yet ; 
To  feel  that  such  a  light  as  thine 

Could  not  in  utter  darkness  set. 

Less  dreary  seems  the  untried  way 

Since  thou  hast  left  thy  footprints  there, 


TO  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND. 


77 


And  beams  of  mournful  beauty  play 
Round  the  sad  Angel's  sable  hair. 

Oh  ! — at  this  hour  when  half  the  sky 

Is  glorious  with  its  evening  light, 
And  fair  broad  fields  of  summer  lie 

Hung  o'er  with  greenness  in  my  sight ; 

While  through  these  elm-boughs  wet  with  rain 

The  sunset's  golden  walls  are  seen, 
With  clover-bloom  and  yellow  grain 

And  wood-draped  hill  and  stream  between ; 

I  long  to  know  if  scenes  like  this 

Are  hidden  from  an  angel's  eyes  ; 
If  earth's  familiar  loveliness 

Haunts  not  thy  heaven's  serener  skies. 

For  sweetly  here  upon  thee  grew 
The  lesson  which  that  beauty  gave, 

The  ideal  of  the  Pure  and  True 
In  earth  and  sky  and  gliding  wave. 

And  it  may  be  that  all  which  lends 

The  soul  an  upward  impulse  here, 
With  a  diviner  beauty  blends, 

And  greets  us  in  a  holier  sphere. 

Through  groves  where  blighting  never  fell 
The  humbler  flowers  of  earth  may  twine ; 

And  simple  draughts  from  childhood's  well 
Blend  with  the  angel-tasted  wine. 

But  be  the  prying  vision  veiled, 

And  let  the  seeking  lips  be  dumb, — 

Where  even  seraph  eyes  have  failed 
Shall  mortal  blindness  seek  to  come  ? 

We  only  know  that  thou  hast  gone, 

And  that  the  same  returnless  tide 
Which  bore  thee  from  us  still  glides  on, 

And  we  who  mourn  thee  with  it  glide. 

On  all  thou  lookest  we  shall  look, 

And  to  our  gaze  erelong  shall  turn 
That  page  of  God's  mysterious  book 

We  so  much  wish,  yet  dread  to  learn. 

With  Him,  before  whose  awful  power 
Thy  spirit  bent  its  trembling  knee  ; — 

Who,  in  the  silent  greeting  flower, 
And  forest  leaf,  looked  out  on  thee, — 

We  leave  thee,  with  a  trust  serene. 

Which  Time,  nor  Change,  nor  Death  can  move, 
While  with  thy  childlike  faith  we  lean 

On  Him  whose  dearest  name  is  Love  ! 


TO  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

GOD  bless  ye,  brothers  ! — in  the  fight 
Ye  're  waging  now,  ye  cannot  fail, 

For  better  is  your  sense  of  right 
Than  king-craft's  triple  mail. 

Than  tyrant's  law,  or  bigot's  ban, 
More  mighty  is  your  simplest  word  ; 

The  free  heart  of  an  honest  man 
Than  crosier  or  the  sword. 

Go, — let  your  bloated  Church  rehearse 
The  lesson  it  has  learned  so  well ; 

It  moves  not  with  its  prayer  or  curse 
The  gates  of  heaven  or  hell. 

Let  the  State  scaffold  rise  again, — 
Did  Freedom  die  when  Russell  died  ? 


Forget  ye  how  the  blood  of  Vane 
From  earth's  green  bosom  cried  ? 

The  great  hearts  of  your  olden  time 
Are  beating  with  you,  full  and  strong 

All  holy  memories  and  sublime 
And  glorious  round  ye  throng. 

The  bluff,  bold  men  of  Runnymede 
Are  with  ye  still  in  times  like  these  ; 

The  shades  of  England's  mighty  dead, 
Your  cloud  of  witnesses  ! 

The  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 

By  every  wind  and  every  tide  ; 
The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 

Speaks  out  upon  your  side. 

The  weapons  which  your  hands  have  found 
Are  those  which  Heaven  itself  has  wrought, 

Light,  Truth,  and  Love  ; — your  battle-ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought. 

No  partial,  selfish  purpose  breaks 

The  simple  beauty  of  your  plan, 
Nor  lie  from  throne  or  altar  shakes 

Your  steady  faith  in  man. 

The  languid  pulse  of  England  starts 
And  bounds  beneath  your  words  of  power, 

The  beating  of  her  million  hearts 
Is  with  you  at  this  hour  ! 

O  ye  who,  with  undoubting  eyes, 

Through  present  cloud  and  gathering  storm, 
Behold  the  span  of  Freedom's  skies, 

And  sunshine  soft  and  warm, — 

Press  bravely  onward  ! — not  in  vain 
Your  generous  trust  in  human-kind  ; 

The  good  which  bloodshed  could  not  gain 
Your  peaceful  zeal  shall  find. 

Press  on  ! — the  triumph  shall  be  won 
Of  common  rights  and  equal  laws, 

The  glorious  dream  of  Harrington, 
And  Sidney's  good  old  cause. 

Blessing  the  cotter  and  the  crown, 

Sweetening  worn  Labor's  bitter  cup ; 
!  And,  plucking  not  the  highest  down. 
Lifting  the  lowest  up. 

Press  on  ! — and  we  who  may  not  share 

The  toil  or  glory  of  your  fight 
May  ask,  at  least,  in  earnest  prayer, 

God's  blessing  on  the  right ! 


THE  QUAKER  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME. 

THE  Quaker  of  the  olden  time  !— 

How  calm  and  firm  and  true, 
Unspotted  by  its  wrong  and  crime, 

He  walked  the  dark  earth  through. 
The  lust  of  power,  the  love  of  gain, 

The  thousand  lures  of  sin 
Around  him,  had  no  power  to  stain 

The  purity  within. 

With  that  deep  insight  which  detects 

All  great  things  in  the  small, 
And  knows  how  each  man's  life  affects 

The  spiritual  life  of  all, 
He  walked  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

By  love  and  not  by  law ; 
The  presence  of  the  'wrong  or  right 

He  rather  felt  than  saw. 


78 


THE  REFORMER.— THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT. 


He  felt  that  wrong  with  wrong  partakes, 

That  nothing  stands  alone, 
That  whoso  gives  the  motive,  makes 

His  brother's  sin  his  own. 
And,  pausing  not  for  doubtful  choice 

Of  evils  great  or  small, 
He  listened  to  that  inward  voice 

Which  called  away  from  all. 

O  Spirit  of  that  early  day. 

So  pure  and  strong  and  true, 
Be  with  us  in  the  narrow  way 

Our  faithful  fathers  knew. 
Give  strength  the  evil  to  forsake, 

The  cross  of  Truth  to  bear, 
And  love  and  reverent  fear  to  make 

Our  daily  lives  a  prayer  ! 


THE  REFORMER. 

ALL  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan, 

I  saw  a  Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 
Smiting  the  godless  shrines  of  man 
Along  his  path. 

The  Church,  beneath  her  trembling  dome, 

Essayed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm  : 
Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
With  strange  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambers  fled 

Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in  : 

Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o'er  her  head 

To  drown  the  din. 

"  Spare,"  Art  implored,  "  yon  holy  pile  ; 

That  grand,  old,  time-worn  turret  spare  "  ; 
Meek  Reverence,  kneeling  in  the  aisle, 
Cried  out,  "Forbear  !" 

Gray-bearded  Use,  who,  deaf  and  blind, 
Groped  for  his  old  accustomed  stone, 
Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept  to  find 
His  seat  o'erthrown. 

Young  Romance  raised  his  dreamy  eyes, 

O'erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold, — 

41  Why  smite,"  he  asked  in  sad  surprise, 

"  The  fair,  the  old  ?  " 

Yet  louder  rang  the  Strong  One's  stroke, 

Yet  nearer  flashed  his  axe's  gleam  ; 
Shuddering  and  sick  of  heart  I  woke, 
As  from  a  dream. 

I  looked  :  aside  the  dust-cloud  rolled, — 

The  Waster  seemed  the  Builder  too  ; 
Up  springing  from  the  ruined  Old 
I  saw  the  New. 

'T  was  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad, — 

The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill ; 
Whate'er  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Was  living  still. 

Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I  feared  ; 

The  frown  which  awed  me  passed  away, 
And  left  behind  a  smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 

The  grain  grew  green  on  battle-plains, 

O'er  swarded  war-mounds  grazed  the  cow ; 
The  slave  stood  forging  from  his  chains 
The  spade  and  plough. 


|  Where  frowned  the  fort,  pavilions  gay 

And  cottage  windows,  flower-entwined, 
Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 

Through  vine-wreathed  cups  with  wine  once  red, 

The  lights  on  brimming  crystal  fell, 
Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  head 
And  mossy  well. 

Through  prison  walls,  like  Heaven-sent  hope, 
Fresh  breezes  blew,  and  sunbeams  strayed, 
And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 

The  young  child  played. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 
Had  counted  o'er  the  weary  hours, 
Glad  school-girls,  answering  to  the  bell, 
Came  crowned  with  flowers. 

Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 

I  fear  no  longer,  for  I  know 
That,  where  the  share  is  deepest  driven, 
The 'best  fruits  grow. 

The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 

The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown, 
The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 
Of  wrong  alone, — 

These  wait  their  doom,  from  that  great  law 
Which  makes  the  past  time  serve  to-day  ; 
And  fresher  life  the  world  shall  draw 
From  their  decay. 

O,  backward- looking  son  of  time  ! 

The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new, 
The  cycle  of  a  change  sublime 

Still  sweeping  through. 

So  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer ; 

Destroying  Seva,  forming  Brahm, 
Who  wake  by  turns  Earth's  love  and  fear, 
Are  one,  the  same. 

Idly  as  thou,  in  that  old  day 

Thou  mournest,  did  thy  sire  repine ; 
So,  in  his  time,  thy  child  grown  gray 
Shall  sigh  for  thine. 


But  lif  e  shall  on  and  upward  go ; 

Th'  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 
To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow, 
Which  God  repeats. 

4Take  heart ! — the  Waster  builds  again, — 

A  charmed  life  old  Goodness  hath ; 
The  tares  may  perish,— but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things  ;  all  obey 

His  first  propulsion  from  the  night : 
Wake  thou  and  watch  ! — the  world  is  gray 
With  morning  light ! 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT. 

LOOK  on  him  ! — through  his  dungeon  grate 
Feebly  and  cold,  the  morning  light 

Comes  stealing  round  him,  dim  and  late, 
As  if  it  loathed  the  sight. 

Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed, 

His  hand  upholds  his  drooping  head, — 


LINES. 


His  bloodless  cheek  is  seamed  and  hard, 
Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard ; 
And  o'er  his  bony  fingers  flow 
His  long,  dishevelled  locks  of  snow. 

No  grateful  fire  before  him  glows, 
And  yet  the  winter's  breath  is  chill ; 

And  o'er  his  half-clad  person  goes 
The  frequent  ague  thrill ! 

Silent,  save  ever  and  anon, 

A  sound,  half  murmur  and  half  groan, 

Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 

Of  the  old  sufferer's  bearded  lip ; 

O  sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 

Of  old  age  chained  and  desolate  ! 

Just  God  !  why  lies  that  old  man  there  ? 

A  murderer  shares  his  prison  bed, 
Whose  eyeballs,  through  his  horrid  hair, 

Gleam  on  him,  fierce  and  red ; 
And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 
Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear, 
And,  or  in  wakef  ulness  or  sleep, 
Nerve,  flesh,  and  pulses  thrill  and  creep 
Whene'er  that  ruffian's  tossing  limb, 
Crimson  with  murder,  touches  him  ! 

What  has  the  gray -haired  prisoner  done  ? 

Has  murder  stained  his  hands  with  gore  ? 
Not  so  ;  his  crime  's  a  fouler  one ; 

GOD  MADE  THE  OLD  MAN  POOR  ! 

For  this  he  shares  a  felon's  cell, — 
The  fittest  earthly  type  of  hell ! 
For  this,  the  boon  for  which  he  poured 
His  young  blood  on  the  invader's  sword, 
And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost, — 
His  blood-gained  liberty  is  lost ! 

And  so,  for  such  a  place  of  rest, 

Old  prisoner,  dropped  thy  blood  as  rain 
On  Concord's  field,  and  Bunker's  crest, 

And  Saratoga's  plain  ? 
Look  forth,  thou  man  of  many  scars, 
Through  thy  dim  dungeon's  iron  bars ; 
It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth,  to  see 
Yon  monument  upreared  to  thee, — 
Piled  granite  and  a  prison  cell, — 
The  land  repays  thy  service  well ! 

Go,  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 
And  fling  the  starry  banner  out ; 
Shout  "Freedom  !  "  till  your  lisping  ones 

Give  back  their  cradle-shout; ; 
Let  boastful  eloquence  declaim 
Of  honor,  liberty,  and  fame ; 
Still  let  the  poet's  strain  be  heard, 
With  glory  for  each  second  word, 
And  everything  with  breath  agree 
To  praise  uour  glorious  liberty  !  " 

But  when  the  patron  cannon  jars 
That  prison's  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 

And  through  its  grates  the  stripes  and  stars 
Rise  on  the  wind,  and  fall, — 

Think  ye  that  prisoner's  aged  ear 

Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer  ? 

Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 

Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry  ? 

Sorrowing  of  soul,  and  chained  of  limb, 

What  is  your  carnival  to  him  ? 

Down  with  the  LAW  that  binds  him  thus  ! 

Unworthy  freemen,  let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 

Of  God  and  human  kind  ! 
Open  the  prison's  living  tomb, 
And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 
The  victims  of  your  savage  code 
To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  God  ; 
No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The  chastening  of  the  Almighty's  hand. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  READING  PAMPHLETS  PUBLISHED 
BY  CLERGYMEN  AGAINST  THE  ABOLITION  OF 
THE  GALLOWS. 


THE  suns  of  eighteen  centuries  have  shone 
Since  the  Redeemer  walked  with  man,   and 
made 

The  fisher's  boat,  the  cavern's  floor  of  stone, 
And  mountain  moss,  a  pillow  for  his  head  ; 

And  He,  who  wandered  with  the  peasant  Jew, 
And  broke  with  publicans  the  bread  of  shame, 
And    drank,   with  blessings  in  his    Father's 
name, 

The  water  which  Samaria's  outcast  drew, 

Hath  now  his  temples  upon  every  shore. 

Altar  and  shrine  and  priest, — and  incense  dim 
Evermore  rising,  with  low  prayer  and  hymn, 

From  lips  which  press  the  temple's  marble  floor, 

Or  kiss  the  gilded  sign  of  the  dread  Cross  He 
'bore. 


Yet  as  of  old,  when,  meekly  "  doing  good," 
j  He  fed  a  blind  and  selfish  multitude, 
I  And  even  the  poor  companions  of  his  lot 
I  With  their  dim  earthly  vision  knew  him  not, 
How  ill  are  his  high  teachings  understood  ! 
Where  He  hath  spoken  Liberty,  the  priest 
At  his  own  altar  binds  the  chain  anew  ;  . 
Where  He  hath  bidden  to  Life's  equal  feast, 

The  starving  many  wait  upon  the  few  ; 
Where  He  hath  spoken  Peace,  his  name  hath  been 
The  loudest  war  cry  of  contending  men  ; 
Priests,  pale  with  vigils,  in  his  name  have  blessed 
The  unsheathed  sword,  and  laid  the  spear  in  rest, 
Wet  the  war-banner  with  their  sacred  wine, 
And  crossed  its  blazon  with  the  holy  sign  ; 
Yea,  in  his  name  who  bade  the  erring  live, 
And  daily  taught  his  lesson, — to  forgive  ! — 

Twisted  the  cord  and  edged  the  murderous  steel ; 
And,  with  his  words  of  mercy  on  their  lips, 
Hung  gloating  o'er  the  pincer's  burning  grips, 

And  the  grim  horror  of  the  straining  wheel ; 
Fed  the  slow  flame  which  gnawed  the  victim's 

limb, 

Who  saw  before  his  searing  eyeballs  swim 
The  image  of  their  Christ  in  cruel  zeal, 
Through  the  black  torment-smoke,  held  mocking 
ly  to  him  ! 


The  blood  which  mingled  with  the  desert  sand 

And  beaded  with  its  red  and  ghastly  dew 
The  vines  and  olives  of  the  Holy  Land, — 

The  shrieking  curses  of  the  hunted  Jew, — 
The  white-sown  bones  of  heretics,  where'er 
They  sank  beneath  the  Crusade's  holy  spear, — 
Goa's  dark  dungeons, — Malta's  sea-washed  cell, 

Where  with  the  hymns  the   ghostly  fathers 
sung 

Mingled  the  groans  by  subtle  torture  wrung, 
Heaven's  anthem  blending  with  the    shriek  of 

hell ! 
The  midnight  of  Bartholomew, — the  stake 

Of  Smithfield,  and  that  thrice-accursed  flame 
Which  Calvin  kindled  by  Geneva's  lake, — 
New  England's  scaffold,  and  the  priestly  sneer 
Which  mocked  its  victims  in  that  hour  of  fear, 

When  guilt  itself  a  human  tear  might  claim,— 
Bear  witness,  O  thou  wronged  and  merciful  One  ! 
That  Earth's  most  hateful  crimes  have  in  thy 
name  been  done  ! 


80 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE. 


Thank  God  !  that  I  have  lived  to  see  the  time 
When  the  great  truth  begins  at  last  to  find 
An  utterance  from  the  deep  heart  of  mankind, 
Earnest  and  clear,  that  ALL  REVENGE  is  CRIME  ! 
That  man  is  holier  than  a  creed, — that  all 

Restraint  upon  him  must  consult  his  good, 
Hope's  sunshine  linger  on  his  prison  wall, 

And  Love  look  in  upon  his  solitude. 
The  beautiful  lesson  which  our  Saviour  taught 
Through  long,  dark  centuries  its  way  hath  wrought 
Into  the  common  mind  and  popular  thought ; 
And  words,  to  which  by  Galilee's  lake  shore 
The  humble  fishers  listened  with  hushed  oar, 
Have  found  an  echo  in  the  general  heart, 
And  of  the  public  faith  become  a  living  part. 

v. 

Who  shall  arrest  this  tendency  ?— Bring  back 
The  cells  of  Venice  and  the  bigot's  rack  ? 
Harden  the  softening  human  heart  again 
To  cold  indifference  to  a  brother's  pain  ? 
Ye  most  unhappy  men  ! — who,  turned  away 
From  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  Gospel  day, 

Grope  in  the  shadows  of  Man's  twilight  time, 
What  mean  ye,  that  with  ghoul-like  zest  ye  brood, 
O'er  those  foul  altars  streaming  with  warm  blood, 

Permitted  in  another  age  and  olime  ? 
Why  cite  that  law  with  which  the  bigot  Jew 
Rebuked  the  Pagan's  mercy,  when  he  knew 
No  evil  in  the  Just  One  ?— Wherefore  turn 
To  the  dark  cruel  past  ? — Can  ye  not  learn 
From  the  pure  Teacher's  life ,  show  mildly  free 
Is  the  great  Gospel  of  Humanity  ? 
The  Flamen's  knife  is  bloodless,  and  no  more 
Mexitli's  altars  soak  with  human  gore, 
No  more  the  ghastly  sacrifices  smoke 
Through  the  green  arches  of  the  Druid's  oak  ; 
And  ye  of  milder  faith,  with  your  high  claim 
Of  prophet-utterance  in  the  Holiest  name. 
Will  ye  become  the  Druids  of  our  time  ! 
Set  up  your  scaffold -altars  in  our  land, 
And,  consecrators  of  Law's  darkest  crime, 

Urge  to  its  loathsome  work  the  hangman's  hand  ? 
Beware, — lest  human  nature,  roused  at  last, 
From  its  peeled  shoulder  your  encumbrance  cast, 

And,  sick  to  loathing  of  your  cry  for  blood, 
Rank  ye  with  those  who  led  their  victims  round 
The  Celt's  red  altar  and  the  Indian's  mound, 

Abhorred   of  Earth     and    Heaven,— a   pagan 
brotherhood ! 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE. 


FAR  from  his  close  and  noisome  cell, 

By  grassy  lane  and  sunny  stream, 
Blown  clover  field  and  strawberry  dell, 
And  green  and  meadow  freshness,  fell 

The  footsteps  of  his  dream. 
Again  from  careless  feet  the  dew 

Of  summer's  misty  morn  he  shook  ; 
Again  with  merry  heart  he  threw 

His  light  line  in  the  rippling  brook. 
Back  crowded  all  his  school-day  joys, — 

He  urged  the  ball  and  quoit  again, 
And  heard  the  shout  of  laughing  boys 

Come  ringing  down  the  walnut  glen. 
Again  he  felt  the  western  breeze, 

With  scent  of  flowers  and  crisping  hay  ; 
And  down  again  throvigh  wind-stirred  trees 

He  saw  the  quivering  sunlight  play. 


An  angel  in  home's  vine-hung  door, 
He  saw  his  sister  smile  once  more  ; 
Once  more  the  truant's  brown-locked  head 
Upon  his  mother's  knees  was  laid, 
And  sweetly  lulled  to  slumber  there, 
With  evening's  holy  hymn  and  prayer  ! 


He  woke.     At  once  on  heart  and  brain 
The  present  Terror  rushed  again, — 
Clanked  on  his  limbs  the  felon's  chain  ! 
He  woke,  to  hear  the  church-tower  tell 
Time's  footfall  on  the  conscious  bell, 
And,  shuddering,'  feel  that  clanging  din 
His  life's  LAST  HOUR  had  ushered  in  ; 
To  see  within  his  prison-yard, 
Through  the  small  window,  iron  barred, 
The  gallows  shadow  rising  dim 
Between  the  sunrise  heaven  and  him, — 
A  horror  in  God's  blessed  air, — 

A  blackness  in  his  morning  light, — 
Like  some  foul  devil-altar  there 

Built  up  by  demon  hands  at  night. 

And,  maddened  by  that  evil  si^ht, 
Dark,  horrible,  confused,  and  strange, 
A  chaos  of  wild,  weltering  change, 
All  power  of  check  and  guidance  gone, 
Dizzy  and  blind,  his  mind  swept  on. 
In  vain  he  strove  to  breathe  a  prayer, 

In  vain  he  turned  the  Holy  Book, 
He  only  heard  the  gallows-stair 

Creak  as  the  wind  its  timbers  shook. 
No  dream  for  him  of  sin  forgiven, 

While  still  that  baleful  spectre  stood, 

With  its  hoarse  murmur,  "  Blood  for  Blood!  " 
Between  him  and  the  pitying  Heaven  ! 


Low  on  his  dungeon  floor  he  knelt, 

And  smote  his  breast,  and  on  his  chain, 
Whose  iron  clasp  he  always  felt, 

His  hot  tears  fell  like  rain  ; 
And  near  him,  with  the  cold,  calm  look 
And  tone  of  one  whose  formal  part, 
Unwarmed,  unsoftened  of  the  heart, 
Is  measured  out  by  rule  and  book, 
With  placid  lip  and  tranquil  blood, 
The  hangman's  ghostly  ally  stood, 
Blessing  with  solemn  text  and  word 
The  gallows-drop  and  strangling  cord ; 
Lending  the  sacred  Gospel's  awe 
And  sanction  to  the  crime  of  Law. 


He  saw  the  victim's  tortured  brow,— 

The  sweat  of  anguish  starting  there, — 
The  record  of  a  nameless  woe 
In  the  dim  eye's  imploring  stare, 
Seen  hideous  through  the  long,  damp  hair,- 
Fingers  of  ghastly  skin  and  bone 
Working  and  writhing  on  the  stone ! — 
And  heard,  by  mortal  terror  wrung 
From  heaving  breast  and  stiffened  tongue, 
The  choking  sob  and  low  hoarse  prayer  ; 
As  o'er  his  half -crazed  fancy  came 
A  vision  of  the  eternal  flame, — 
Its  smoking  cloud  of  agonies,— 
Its  demon  worm  that  never  dies, — 
The  everlasting  rise  and  fall 
Of  fire-waves  round  the  infernal  wall ; 
While  high  above  that  dark  red  flood, 
Black,  giant-like,  the  gallows  stood ; 
Two  busy  fiends  attending  there  : 
One  with  cold  mocking  rite  and  prayer, 
The  other  with  impatient  grasp, 
Tightening  tb«  death-rope's  strangling  clasp. 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE. 


The  unfelt  rite  at  length  was  done, — 

The  prayer  unheard  at  length  was  said, — 
An  hour  had  passed  : — the  noonday  sun 

Smote  on  the  features  of  the  dead  ! 
And  he  who  stood  the  doomed  beside, 
Calm  ganger  of  the  swelling  tide 
Of  mortal  agony  and  fear, 
Heeding  with  curious  eye  and  ear 
Whate'er  revealed  the  keen  excess 
Of  man's  extremest  wretchedness : 
And  who  in  that  dark  anguish  saw 

An  earnest  of  the  victim's  fate, 
The  vengeful  terrors  of  God's  law, 

The  kindlings  of  Eternal  hate, — 
The  first  drops  of  that  fiery  rain 
Which  beats  the  dark  red  realm  of  pain, 
Did  he  uplift  his  earnest  cries 

Against  the  crime  of  Law,  which  gave 

His  brother  to  that  fearful  grave, 
Whereon  Hope's  moonlight  never  lies, 

And  Faith's  white  blossoms  never  wave 
To  the  soft  breath  of  Memory's  sighs  ; — 
Which  sent  a  spirit  marred  and  stained, 
By  fiends  of  sin  possessed,  profaned, 
In  madness  and  in  blindness  stark, 
Into  the  silent,  unknown  dark  ? 
No, — from  the  wild  and  shrinking  dread 
With  which  he  saw  the  victim  led 

Beneath  the  dark  veil  which  divides 
Ever  the  living  from  the  dead, 

And  Nature's  solemn  secret  hides, 
The  man  of  prayer  can  only  draw 
New  reasons  for  his  bloody  law  ; 
New  faith  in  staying  Murder's  hand 
By  murder  at  that  Law's  command ; 
New  reverence  for  the  gallows-rope, 
As  human  nature's  latest  hope  ; 
Last  relic  of  the  good  old  time, 
When  Power  found  license  for  its  crime, 
And  held  a  writhing  world  in  check 
By  that  fell  cord  about  its  neck  ; 
Stifled  Sedition's  rising  shout, 
Choked  the  young  breath  of  Freedom  out, 
And  timely  checked  the  words  which  sprung 
From  Heresy's  forbidden  tongue ; 
While  in  its  noose  of  terror  bound, 
The  Church  its  cherished  union  found, 
Conforming,  on  the  Moslem  plan, 
The  motley-colored  mind  of  man, 
Not  by  the  Koran  and  the  Sword, 
But  by  the  Bible  and  the  Cord  ! 


O  Thou  !  at  whose  rebuke  the  grave 
Back  to  warm  life  its  sleeper  gave, 
Beneath  whose  sad  and  tearful  glance 
The  cold  and  changed  countenance 
Broke  the  still  horror  of  its  trance, 
And,  waking,  saw  with  joy  above, 
A  brother's  face  of  tenderest  love  ; 
Thou,  unto  whom  the  blind  and  lame, 
The  sorrowing  and  the  sin-sick  came, 
And  from  thy  very  garment's  hem 
Drew  life  and  healing  unto  them, 
The  burden  of  thy  holy  faith 
Was  love  and  life,  not  hate  and  death, 
Man's  demon  ministers  of  pain, 

The  fiends  of  his  revenge  were  sent 

From  thy  pure  Gospel's  element 
To  their  dark  home  again. 
Thy  name  is  Love  !     What,  then,  is  he, 

Who  in  that  name  the  gallows  rears, 
An  awful  altar  built  to  thee, 

With  sacrifice  of  blood  and  tears  V 
O,  once  again  thy  healing  lay 

On  the  olind  eyes  which  knew  thee  not, 


And  let  the  light  of  thy  pure  day 
Melt  in  upon  his  darkened  thought. 

Soften  his  hard,  cold  heart,  and  show 
The  power  which  in  forbearance  lies, 

And  let  him  feel  that  mercy  now 
Is  better  than  old  sacrifice  ! 


As  on  the  White  Sea's  charmed  shore, 

The  Parsee  sees  his  holy  hill 
With  dunnest  smoke-clouds  curtained  o'er, 
Yet  knows  beneath  them,  evermore, 

The  low,  pale  tire  is  quivering  still; 
So,  underneath  its  clouds  of  sin, 

The  heart  of  man  retaineth  yet 
Gleams  of  its  holy  origin  ; 

And  half -quenched  stars  that  never  set, 
Dim  colors  of  its  faded  bow, 

And  early  beauty,  linger  there, 
And  o'er  its  wasted  desert  blow 

Faint  breathings  of  its  morning  air, 
O,  never  yet  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  sin-stained,  but  priceless  soul, 

Hath  Heaven  inscribed  "  DESPAIR  !  " 
Cast  not  the  clouded  gem  away, 
Quench  not  the  dim  but  living  ray, — 

My  brother  man,  Beware  ! 
With  that  deep  voice  which  from  the  skies 
Forbade  the  Patriarch's  sacrifice, 

God's  angel  cries,  FORBEAR  ! 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE. 

O  MOTHER  EARTH  !  upon  thy  lap 

Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  arid  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 

Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 
And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning ; 

Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 
Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 

Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 
Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness. 

And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

• 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw  autumn's  sunset  glowing, 
He  sleeps, — still  looking  to  the  west, 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune  ! — in  himself 

All  moods  of  mind  contrasting, — 
The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 

The  scorn-like  lightning  blasting  ; 
The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 

Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 
The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 

Of  hatred  scarcely  human ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  shower, 
From  lips  of  life-long  sadness  ; 

Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 
Upon  a  ground  of  madness ; 

And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 
A  classic  beauty  throwing, 


DEMOCRACY. 


And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 
Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him  :  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 

With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 
And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion  ! 

Still  through  each  change  of  fortune  strange, 

Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 
His  loving  faith  in  Mother -land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning  ; 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  wave 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences, 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  Scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves  ;  yet  kept  the  while 

His  reverence  for  the  Human ; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman  ! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Roanoke  valley  entered ; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured. 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Lay  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother-man  stood  weeping, 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With  failing  tongue,  and  trembling  hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

O,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver  ! 
None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 

The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 
None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 

Along  her  future  treading. 
For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 
He  traced  with  dying  hand  "REMORSE  !  " 

And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 
From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 

And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 
The  Sage  of  Monticello, 


So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 

Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling, 
Virginia  !  o'er  thy  laiid  of  slaves 

A  warning  voice  is  swelling  ! 

And  hark  !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  quenched  hearths,  where  thy  exiled  sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee, — wolves  for  men, 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving  ! 
O,  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  hero  living  ! 


DEMOCRACY. 

All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to 
you,  do  ye  even  so  to  them. — Matthew  vii.  12. 

BEARER  of  Freedom's  holy  light, 
Breaker  of  Slavery's  chain  and  rod, 

The  foe  of  all  which  pains  the  sight, 
Or  wounds  the  generous  ear  of  God  ! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown  ; 
And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 

Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still  sacred, — though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  deride  ; 

And  garlands,  plucked  from  thee,  are  wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 

O,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time  ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy  peaceful  courts  with  blood  ! 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 
For  through  the  mists  which  darken  there, 

I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn, — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer  ! 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Which  owns  the  rights  of  all  divine, — 

The  pitying  heart, — the  helping  arm, — 
The  prompt  self-sacrifice, — are  thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 

How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth ! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth  ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true, 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him  ; 

As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  unawed 
'By  pomp  or  power,  thou  seest  a  MAN 

In  prince  or  peasant, — slave  or  lord, — 
Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disguise,  form,  place,  or  name, 
Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 

Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 
Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 
Howe'er  debased,  and  soiled,  and  dim, 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set, — 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look  ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veiled  his  perfect  brightness  there. 


TO  RONGE.— CHALKLEY  HALL. 


83 


Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 

Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art ; 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 

Thrilled,    warmed,   by  turns,  the  listener's 
heart, 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 
In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to  know,. 

Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high, — 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died  ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain-side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 

I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 
And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 

Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 

At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring  ; 
But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 

A  freeman's  dearest  offering : 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will, — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 
Election  Day,  1843. 


TO  RONGE. 

STRIKE  home,  strong-hearted  man  !    Down  to  the 

root 

Of  old  oppression  sink  the  Saxon  steel. 
Thy  work  is  to  hew  down.     In  God's  name  then 
Put  nerve  into  thy  task.     Let  other  men 
Plant,  as  they  may,  that  better  tree  whose  fruit 
The  wounded  bosom  of  the  Church  shall  heal. 
Be  thou  the  image-breaker.     Let  thy  blows 
Fail  heavy  as  the  Suabina's  iron  hand, 
On  crown  or  crosier,  which  shall  interpose 
Between  thee  and  the  weal  of  Fatherland. 
Leave  creeds  to  closet  idlers.     First  of  all, 
Shake  thou  all  German  dream-land  with  the  fall 
Of  that  accursed  tree,  whose  evil  trunk 
Was  spared  of  old  by  Erfurt's  stalwart  monk. 
Fight  not  with  ghosts  and  shadows.     Let  us  hear 
The  snap  of  chain-links.     Let  our  gladdened  ear 
Catch  the  pale  prisoner's  welcome,  as  the  light 
Follows  thy  axe-stroke,  through  his  cell  of  night. 
Be  faithful  to  both  worlds  ;  nor  think  to  feed 
Earth's  starving  millions  with  the  husks  of  creed. 
Servant  of  Him  whose  mission  high  and  holy 
Was  to  the  wronged,  the  sorrowing,  and  the  lowly, 
Thrust  not  his  Eden  promise  from  our  sphere, 
Distant  and  dim  beyond  the  blue  sky's  span  ; 
Like  him  of  Patmos,  see  it,  now  and  here, — 
The  New  Jerusalem  comes  down  to  man  ! 
Be  warned  by  Luther's  error.     Nor  like  him, 
When  the  roused  Teuton  dashes  from  his  limb 
The  rusted  chain  of  ages,  help  to  bind 
His  hands  for  whom  thou  claim'st  the  freedom  of 

the  mind ! 


CHALKLEY  HALL.39 

How  bland  and  sweet  the  greeting  of  this  breeze 

To  him  who  flies 

From  crowded  street  and  red  wall's  weary  gleam, 
Till  far  behind  him  like  a  hideous  dream 

The  close  dark  city  lies  ! 


Here,  while    the    market   murmurs,   while  men 
throng 

The  marble  floor 

Of  Mammon's  altar,  from  the  crush  and  din 
Of  the  world's  madness  let  me  gather  in 

My  better  thoughts  once  more. 

O,  once  again  revive,  while  on  my  ear 

The  cry  of  Gain 

And  low  hoarse  hum  of  Traffic  die  away, 
Ye  blessed  memories  of  my  early  day 

Like  sere  grass  wet  with  rain  !— 

Oru;e  more  let  God's  green  earth  and  sunset  air 

Old  feelings  waken ; 

Through  weary  years  of  toil  and  strife  and  ill, 
O,  let  me  feel  that  my  good  angel  still 

Hath  not  his  trust  forsaken. 

And  well  do  time  and  place  befit  my  mood  : 

Beneath  the  arms 

Of  this  embracing  wood,  a  good  man  made 
His  home,  like  Abraham  resting  in  the  shade 

Of  Mamre's  lonely  palms. 

Here,  rich  with  autumn  gifts  of  countless  years, 

The  virgin  soil 

Turned  from  the  share  he  guided,  and  in  rain 
And  summer  sunshine  throve  the  fruits  and  grain 

Which  blessed  his  honest  toil. 

Here,  from  his  voyages  on  the  stormy  seas, 

Weary  and  worn, 

He  came  to  meet  his  children  and  to  bless 
The  Giver  of  all  good  in  thankfulness 

And  praise  for  his  return. 

And  here  his  neighbors  gathered  in  to  greet 

Their  friend  again, 

Safe  from  the  wave  and  the  destroying  gales, 
Which  reap  untimely  green  Bermuda's  vales, 

And  vex  the  Carib  main. 

To  hear  the  good  man  tell  of  simple  truth, 

Sown  in  an  hour 

Of  weakness  in  some  far-off  Indian  isle, 
From  the  parched  bosom  of  a  barren  soil, 

Raised  up  in  life  and  power : 

How  at  those  gatherings  in  Barbadian  vales, 

A  tendering  love 

Came  o'er  him,  like  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven, 
And  words  of  fitness  to  his  lips  were  given, 

And  strength  as  from  above  : 

How  the  sad  captive  listened  to  the  Word, 

Until  his  chain 

Grew  lighter,  and  his  wounded  spirit  felt 
The  healing  balm  of  consolation  melt 

Upon  its  life-long  pain  : 

How  the  armed  warrior  sat  him  down  to  hear 

Of  Peace  and  Truth, 

And  the  proud  ruler  and  his  Creole  dame, 
Jewelled  and  gorgeous  in  her  beauty  came, 

And  fair  and  bright-eyed  youth. 

O,  far  away  beneath  New  England's  sky, 

Even  when  a  boy, 

Following  my  plough  by  Merrimack's  green  shore, 
His  simple  record  I  have  pondered  o'er 

With  deep  and  quiet  joy. 

And  hence  this  scene,  in  sunset  glory  warm, — 

Its  woods  around, 

Its  still  stream  winding  on  in  light  and  shade, 
Its  soft,  green  meadows  and  its  upland  glade, — 

To  me  is  holy  ground. 


TO  J.  P.— A  DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 


And  dearer  far  than  haunts  where  Genius  keeps 

His  vigils  still ; 

Than  that  where  Avon's  son  of  song  is  laid, 
Of  Vaucluse  hallowed  by  its  Petrarch's  shade, 

Or  Virgil's  laurelled  hill. 

To  the  gray  walls  of  fallen  Paraclete, 

To  Juliet's  urn, 

Fair  Arno  and  Sorrento's  orange-grove, 
Where  Tasso  sang,  let  young  Romance  and  Love 

Like  brother  pilgrims  turn. 

But  here  a  deeper  and  serener  charm 

To  all  is  given ; 

And  blessed  memories  of  the  faithful  dead 
O'er  wood  and  vale  and  meadow-stream  have  shed 

The  holy  hues  of  Heaven  ! 


TO  J.  P. 

NOT  as  a  poor  requital  of  the  joy 

With  which  my  childhood  heard  that  lay  of 
thine, 

Which,  like  an  echo  of  the  song  divine 
At  Bethlehem  breathed  above  the  Holy  Boy, 

Bore  to  my  ear  the  Airs  of  Palestine, — 
Not  to  the  poet,  but  the  man  I  bring 
In  friendship's  fearless  trust  my  offering : 
How  much  it  lacks  I  feel,  and  thou  wilt  see, 
Yet  well  I  know  that  thou  hast  deemed  with  me 
Life  all  too  earnest,  and  its  time  too  short 
For  dreamy  ease  and  Fancy's  graceful  sport ; 

And  girded  for  thy  constant  strife  with  wrong, 
Like  Nehemiah  fighting  while  he  wrought 

The  broken  walls  of  Zion,  even  thy  song 
Hath  a  rude  martial  tone,  a  blow  in  every  thought ! 


THE  CYPRESS-TREE  OF  CEYLON. 

[IBN  BATUTA,  the  celebrated  Mussulman  traveller  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  speaks  of  a  cypress-tree  in  Cey 
lon,  universally  held  sacred  by  the  natives,  the  leaves  of 
which  were  said  to  fall  only  at  certain  intervals,  and  he 
who  had  the  happiness  to  find  and  eat  one  of  them  was 
restored,  at  once,  to  youth  and  vigor.  The  traveller  saw 
several  venerable  JOGEES,  or  saints,  sitting  silent  and 
motionless  under  the  tree,  patiently  awaiting  the  falling 
of  a  leaf.] 

THEY  sat  in  silent  watchfulness 

The  sacred  cypress-tree  about, 
And,  from  beneath  old  wrinkled  brows, 

Their  failing  eyes  looked  out. 

Gray  Age  and  Sickness  waiting  there 
Through  weary  night  and  lingering  day, — 

Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side, 
And  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded  in  the  boughs  above 
The  song  of  Ceylon's  birds  was  sweet; 

Unseen  of  them  the  island  flowers 
Bloomed  brightly  at  their  feet. 

O'er  them  the  tropic  night-storm  swept, 
The  thunder  crashed  on  rock  and  hill ; 

The  cloud-fire  on  their  eyeballs  blazed, 
Yet  there  they  waited  still ! 

What  was  the  world  without  to  them  ? 

The  Moslem's  sunset-call, — the  dance 
Of  Ceylon's  maids, — the  passing  gleam 

Of  battle-flag  and  lance  V 


They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf 

Of  which  the  wandering  Jogees  sing  : 

Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  age 
The  greenness  of  its  spring. 

O,  if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 

In  trustful  patience  wait  to  feel 
O'er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 

A  youthful  freshness  steal ; 

Shall  we,  who  sit  beneath  that  Tree 
Whose  healing  leaves  of  life  are  shed, 

In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer, 
Upon  the  waiting  head ; 

Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms, 

And  build  the  spirit's  broken  shrine, 

But  on  the  fainting  SOUL  to  shed 
A  light  and  life  divine  ; 

Shall  we  grow  weary  in  our  watch, 

And  murmur  at  the  long  delay  ? 
Impatient  of  our  Father's  time 

And  his  appointed  way  ? 

Or  shall  the  stir  of  outward  things 
Allure  and  claim  the  Christian's  eye, 

When  on  the  heathen  watcher's  ear 
Their  powerless  murmurs  die  ? 

Alas  !  a  deeper  test  of  faith 

Than  prison  cell  or  martyr's  stake, 

The  self -abasing  watchfulness 
Of  silent  prayer  may  make. 

We  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 

Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong, — 

And  in  the  ear  of  Pride  and  Power 
Our  warning  voice  is  strong. 

Easier  to  smite  with  Peter's  sword 

Than  "  watch  one  hour  "  in  humbling  prayer. 
Life's  "  great  things,"  like  the  Syrian  lord, 

Our  hearts  can  do  and  dare. 

But  oh  !  we  shrink  from  Jordan's  side, 
From  waters  which  alone  can  save  ; 

And  murmur  for  Abana's  banks 
And  Pharpar's  brighter  wave. 

O  Thou,  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hour 
Forgetful  of  thy  pain  ; 

Bend  o'er  us  now,  as  over  them, 

And  set  our  sleep-bound  spirits  free, 

Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee  ! 


A  DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 

BLAND  as  the  morning  breath  of  June 

The  southwest  breezes  play  ; 
And,  through  its  haze,  the  winter  noon 

Seems  warm  as  summer's  day. 
The  snow-plumed  Angel  of  the  North 

Has  dropped  his  icy  spear ; 
Again  the  mossy  earth  looks  forth, 

Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 

The  fox  his  hillside  cell  forsakes, 
The  muskrat  leaves  his  nook, 

The  bluebird  in  the  meadow  brakes 
Is  singing  with  the  brook. 


A  DREAM  OF  SUMMER.-TO 


85 


u  Bear  up,  O  Mother  Nature  !  "   cry 
Bird,  breeze,  and  streamlet  free  ; 

u  Our  winter  voices  prophesy 
Of  summer  days  to  thee  !  " 

So,  in  those  winters  of  the  soul, 

By  bitter  blasts  and  drear 
O'erswept  from  Memory's  frozen  pole, 

Will  sunny  days  appear. 
Reviving  Hope  and  Faith,  they  show 

The  soul  its  living  powers, 
And  how  beneath  the  winter's  snow 

Lie  germs  of  summer  flowers  ! 

The  Night  is  mother  of  the  Day 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring, 
And  ever  upon  old  Decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 
Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks, 

Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall ; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  his  works, 

Has  left  his  Hope  with  all ! 
4th  1st  month,  1847. 


TO 


WITH  A  COPY  OF  WOOLMAN'S  JOURNAL. 

"  Get  the  writings  of  John  Woolman  by  heart." — Es 
says  of  Ella. 

MAIDEN  !  with  the  fair  brown  tresses 

Shading  o'er  thy  dreamy  eye, 
Floating  on  thy  thoughtful  forehead 

Cloud  wreaths  of  its  sky. 

Youthful  years  and  maiden  beauty, 
Joy  with  them  should  still  abide, — 

Instinct  take  the  place  of  Duty, 
Love,  not  Reason,  guide. 

Ever  in  the  New  rejoicing, 

Kindly  beckoning  back  the  Old, 

Turning,  with  the  gift  of  Midas, 
All  things  into  gold. 

And  the  passing  shades  of  sadness 
Wearing  even  a  welcome  guise, 

As,  when  some  bright  lake  lies  open 
To  the  sunny  skies, 

Every  wing  of  bird  above  it, 

Every  light  cloud  floating  on, 
Glitters  like  that  flashing  mirror 

In  the  self-same  sun. 

But  upon  thy  youthful  forehead 

Something  like  a  shadow  lies  ; 
And  a  serious  soul  is  looking 

From  thy  earnest  eyes. 

With  an  early  introversion, 

Through  the  forms  of  outward  things, 
Seeking  for  the  subtle  essence, 

And  the  hidden  springs. 

Deeper  than  the  gilded  surface 

Hath  thy  wakeful  vision  seen, 
Farther  than  the  narrow  present 

Have  thy  journeyings  been. 

Thou  hast  midst  Life's  empty  noises 
Heard  the  solemn  steps  of  Time, 

And  the  low  mysterious  voices 
Of  another  clime. 

All  the  mystery  of  Being 

Hath  upon  thy  spirit  pressed, — 

Thoughts  which,  like  the  Deluge  wanderer, 
Find  no  place  of  rest : 


That  which  mystic  Plato  pondered, 
That  which  Zeno  heard  with  awe, 

And  the  star -rapt  Zoroaster 
In  his  night-watch  saw. 

From  the  doubt  and  darkness  springing 

Of  the  dim,  uncertain  Past, 
Moving  to  the  dark  still  shadows 

O'er  the  Future  cast, 

Early  hath  Life's  mighty  question 
Thrilled  within  thy  heart  of  youth, 

With  a  deep  and  strong  beseeching : 
WHAT  and  WHERE  is  TRUTH? 

Hollow  creed  and  ceremonial, 
Whence  the  ancient  life  hath  fled, 

Idle  faith  unknown  to  action, 
Dull  and  cold  and  dead. 

Oracles,  whose  wire-worked  meanings 

Only  wake  a  quiet  scorn,  — 
Not  from  these  thy  seeking  spirit 

Hath  its  answer  drawn. 

But,,  like  some  tired  child  at  even, 
On  thy  mother  Nature's  breast, 

Thou,  methinks,  art  vainly  seeking 
Truth,  and  peace,  and  rest. 

O'er  that  mother's  rugged  features 
Thou  art  throwing  Fancy's  veil, 

Light  and  soft  as  woven  moonbeams, 
Beautiful  and  frail ! 

O'er  the  rough  chart  of  Existence, 
Rocks  of  sin  and  wastes  of  woe, 

Soft  airs  breathe,  and  green  leaves  tremble, 
And  cool  fountains  flow. 

And  to  thee  an  answer  cometh 
From  the  earth  and  from  the  sky, 

And  to  thee  the  hills  and  waters 
And  the  stars  reply. 

But  a  soul-sufficing  answer 

Hath  no  outward  origin ; 
More  than  Nature's  many  voices 

May  be  heard  within. 

Even  as  the  great  Augustine 

Questioned  earth  and  sea  and  sky,  40 

And  the  dusty  tomes  of  learning 
And  old  poesy. 

But  his  earnest  spirit  needed 

More  than  outward  Nature  taught, — 

More  than  blest  the  poet's  vision 
Or  the  sage's  thought. 

Only  in  the  gathered  silence 

Of  a  calm  and  waiting  frame 
Light  and  wisdom  as  from  Heaven 

To  the  seeker  came. 

Not  to  ease  and  aimless  quiet 
Doth  that  inward  answer  tend, 

But  to  works  of  love  and  duty 
As  our  being's  end, — 

Not  to  idle  dreams  and  trances, 
Length  of  face,  and  solemn  tone, 

But  to  Faith,  in  daily  striving 
And  performance  shown. 

Earnest  toil  and  strong  endeavor 

Of  a  spirit  which  within 
Wrestles  with  familiar  evil 

And  besetting  sin ; 


LEGGETT'S  MONUMENT.  —DEDICATION. 


And  without,  with  tireless  vigor, 
Steady  heart,  and  weapon  strong, 

In  the  power  of  truth  assailing 
Every  form  of  wrong. 

Guided  thus,  how  passing  lovely 
Is  the  track  of  WOOLMAN'S  feet ! 

And  his  brief  and  simple  record 
How  serenely  sweet ! 

O'er  life's  humblest  duties  throwing 
Light  the  earthling  never  knew, 

Freshening  all  its  dark  waste  places 
As  with  Hermon's  dew. 

All  which  glows  in  Pascal's  pages,— 
All  which  sainted  Guion  sought, 

Or  the  blue-eyed  German  Rahel 
Half -unconscious  taught : — 

Beauty,  such  as  Goethe  pictured, 
Such  as  Shelley  dreamed  of,  shed 

Living  warmth  and  starry  brightness 
Round  that  poor  man's  head. 

Not  a  vain  and  cold  ideal, 

Not  a  poet's  dream  alone, 
But  a  presence  warm  and  real, 

Seen  and  felt  and  known. 

When  the  red  right-hand  of  slaughter 
Moulders  with  the  steel  it  swung, 

When  the  name  of  seer  and  poet 
Dies  on  Memory's  tongue, 

All  bright  thoughts  and  pure  shall  gather 
Round  that  meek  and  suffering  one, — 

Glorious,  like  the  seer -seen  angel 
Standing  in  the  sun ! 

Take  the  good  man's  book  and  ponder 
What  its  pages  say  to  thee, — 

Blessed  as  the  hand  of  healing 
May  its  lesson  be. 

If  it  only  serves  to  strengthen 
Yearnings  for  a  higher  good, 


For  the  fount  of  living  waters 
And  diviner  food  ; 

If  the  pride  of  human  reason 
Feels  its  meek  and  still  rebuke, 

Quailing  like  the  eye  of  Peter 
From  the  Just  One's  look  ! — 

If  with  readier  ear  thou  heedest 
What  the  Inward  Teacher  saith, 

Listening  with  a  willing  spirit 
And  a  childlike  faith,— 

Thou  mayst  live  to  bless  the  giver, 
Who,  himself  but  frail  and  weak, 

Would  at  least  the  highest  welfare 
Of  another  seek ; 

And  his  gift,  though  poor  and  lowly 

It  may  seem  to  other  eyes, 
j      Yet  may  prove  an  angel  holy 
In  a  pilgrim's  guise. 


LEGGETT'S  MONUMENT. 

"Ye  build  the  tombs  of  the  prophets.''— Holy  Writ. 

YES, — pile  the  marble  o'er  him  !     It  is  well 
That  ye  who   mocked   him  in  his  long  stern 

strife, 

And  planted  in  the  pathway  of  his  life 
The  ploughshares  of  your  hatred  hot  from  hell, 
Who  clamored  down  the  bold  reformer  when 
He  pleaded  for  his  captive  fellow-men, 
Who    spurned    him    in    the    market-place,   and 

sought 

Within  thy  walls,  St.  Tammany,  to  bind 
In  party  chains  the  free  and  honest  thought. 

The  angel  utterance  of  an  upright  mind. 
Well  is  it  now  that  o'er  his  grave  ye  raise 
The  stony  tribute  of  your  tardy  praise, 
For  not  alone  that  pile  shall  tell  to  Fame 
Of  the  brave  heart  beneath,  but  of  the  builders' 
shame ! 


SONGS  OF  LABOE, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


1850. 


DEDICATION. 

1  WOULD  the  gift  I  offer  here 

Might  graces  from  thy  favor  take, 
And,  seen  through  Friendship's  atmosphere, 
On  softened  lines  and  coloring,  wear 
The  unaccustomed  light  of  beauty,  for  thy  sake. 

Few  leaves  of  Fancy's  spring  remain  : 

But  what  I  have  I  give  to  thee, — 
The  o'er-sunned  bloom  of  summer's  plain, 
And  paler  flowers,  the  latter  rain 
Calls  from  the  westering  slope  of  life's  autumnal 
lea. 


Above  the  fallen  groves  of  green, 

Where  youth's  enchanted  forest  stood, 
Dry  root  and  mossed  trunk  between, 
A  sober  after-growth  is  seen, 
As  springs   the  pine  where  falls  the  gay-leafed 
maple  wood ! 


Yet  birds  will  sing,  and  breezes  play 

Their  leaf-harps  in  the  sombre  tree  ; 
And  through  the  bleak  and  wintry  day 
It  keeps  its  steady  green  alway, — 
So,  even  my  after-thoughts   may  have  a   charm 
for  thee. 


THE  SHIP-BUILDERS. 


87 


Art's  perfect  forms  no  moral  need, 
And  beauty  is  its  own  excuse ;  41 
But  for  the  dull  and  flowerless  weed 
Some  healing  virtue  still  must  plead, 
And  the  rough  ore  must  find  its  honors  in  its 
use. 


So  haply  these,  my  simple  lays 

Of  homely  toil,  may  serve  to  show 
The  orchard  bloom  and  tasselled  maize 
That  skirt  and  gladden  duty's  ways. 
The  unsung  beauty   hid  life's  common    things 
below. 

Haply  from  them  the  toiler,  bent 

Above  his  forge  or  plough,  may  gain, 
A  manlier  spirit  of  content, 
And  feel  that  life  is  wisest  spent 
Where  the  strong  working  hand  makes  strong  the 
working  brain. 

The  doom  which  to  the  guilty  pair 
Without  the  walls  of  Eden  came, 
Transforming  sinless  ease  to  care 
And  rugged  toil,  no  more  shall  bear 
The  burden  of  old  crime,   or  mark  of  primal 
shame. 

A  blessing  now, — a  curse  no  more  ; 
Since    He,    whose    name    we    breathe    with 

awe, 

The  coarse  mechanic  vesture  wore, — 
A  poor  man  toiling  with  the  poor, 
In  labor,  as  in  prayer,  fulfilling  the  same  law. 


THE  SHIP-BUILDERS. 

THE  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  east, 

The  earth  is  gray  below, 
And,  spectral  in  the  river-mist, 

The  ship's  white  timbers  show. 
Then  let  the  sounds  of  measured  stroke 

And  grating  saw  begin ; 
The  broad-axe  to  the  gnarled  oak, 

The  mallet  to  the  pin  ! 

Hark ! — roars  the  bellows,  blast  on  blast, 

The  sooty  smithy  jars, 
And  fire-sparks,  rising  far  and  fast, 

Are  fading  with  the  stars. 
All  day  for  us  the  smith  shall  stand 

Beside  that  flashing  forge  ; 
All  day  for  us  his  heavy  hand 

The  groaning  anvil  scourge. 


From  far-off  hills,  the  panting  team 

For  us  is  toiling  near ; 
For  us  the  raftsmen  down  the  stream 

Their  island  barges  steer. 
Rings  out  for  us  the  axe-man's  stroke 

In  forests  old  and  still, — 
For  us  the  century-circled  oak 

Falls  crashing  down  his  hill. 

Up  ! — up ! — in  nobler  toil  than  ours 
No  craftsmen  bear  a  part : 

We  make  of  Nature's  giant  powers 
The  slaves  of  human  Art. 


"  The  ship's  white  timbers  show.' 


THE  SHOEMAKERS. 


Lay  rib  to  rib  and  beam  to  beam, 
And  drive  the  treenails  free  ; 

Nor  faithless  joint  nor  yawning  seam 
Shall  tempt  the  searching  sea  ! 

Where'er  the  keel  of  our  good  ship 

The  sea's  rough  field  shall  plough^ — 
Where'er  her  tossing  spars  shall  drip 

With  salt-spray  caught  below, — 
That  ship  must  heed  her  master's  bech, 

Her  helm  obey  his  hand. 
And  seamen  tread  her  reeling  deck 

As  if  they  trod  the  land. 

Her  oaken  ribs  the  vulture-beak 

Of  Northern  ice  may  peel ; 
The  sunken  rock  and  coral  peak 

May  grate  along  her  keel ; 
And  know  we  well  the  painted  shell 

We  give  to  wind  and  wave, 
Must  float,  the  sailor's  citadel, 

Or  sink,  the  sailor's  grave ! 

Ho  ! — strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 

And  set  the  good  ship  free  ! 
Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 

The  young  bride  of  the  sea  ? 
Look  !  how  she  moves  adown  the  grooves, 

In  graceful  beauty  now  ! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow  ! 

God  bless  her  !  wheresoe'er  the  breeze 

Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 
Aside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostan  ! 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main, 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurled, 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain 

Of  commerce  round  the  world  ! 
•» 

Speed  on  the  ship  ! — But  let  her  bear 

No  mechandise  of  sin, 
No  groaning  cargo  of  despair 

Her  roomy  hold  within ; 
No  Lethean  drug  for  Eastern  lands, 

Nor  poison-draught  for  ours  ; 
But  honest  fruits  of  toiling  hands 

And  Nature's  sun  and  showers. 

Be  hers  the  Prairie's  golden  grain, 

The  Desert's  golden  sand, 
The  clustered  fruits  of  sunny  Spain, 

The  spice  of  Morning-land  ! 
Her  pathway  on  the  open  main 

May  blessings  follow  free, 
And  glad  hearts  welcome  back  again 

Her  white  sails  from  the  sea  ! 


THE  SHOEMAKERS. 

Ho !  workers  of  the  old  time  styled 

The  Gentle  Craft  of  Leather  ! 
Young  brothers  of  the  ancient  guild, 

Stand  forth  once  more  together  ! 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  olden  merry  manner  ! 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  your  blazoned  banner  ! 

Rap,  rap  !  upon  the  well-worn  stone 
How  falls  the  polished  hammer  ! 

Rap,  rap  !  the  measured  sound  has  grown 
A  quick  and  merry  clamor. 


Now  shape  the  sole  !  now  deftly  curl 

The  glossy  vamp  around  it, 
And  bless  the  while  the  bright-eyed  girl 

Whose  gentle  fingers  bound  it ! 

For  you,  along  the  Spanish  main 

A  hundred  keels  are  ploughing  ; 
For  you,  the  Indian  on  the  plain 

His  lasso-coil  is  throwing ; 
For  you,  deep  glens  with  hemlock  dark 

The  woodman's  fire  is  lighting  ; 
For  you,  upon  the  oak's  gray  bark, 

The  woodman's  axe  is  smiting. 

For  you,  from  Carolina's  pine 

The  rosin-gum  is  stealing  ; 
For  you,  the  dark-eyed  Florentine 

Her  silken  skein  is  reeling  ; 
For  you,  the  dizzy  goatherd  roams 

His  rugged  Alpine  ledges  ; 
For  you,  round  all  her  shepherd  homes, 

Bloom  England's  thorny  hedges. 

The  foremost  still,  by  day  or  night, 

On  moated  mound  or  heather, 
Where'er  the  need  «>f  trampled  right 

Brought  toiling  men  together  ; 
Where  the  free  burghers  from  the  wall 

Defied  the  mail-clad  master, 
Than  yours,  at  Freedom's  trumpet-call, 

No  craftsmen  rallied  faster. 

Let  foplings  sneer,  let  fools  deride, — 

Ye  need  no  idle  scorner  ; 
Free  hands  and  hearts  are  still  your  pride, 

And  duty  done,  your  honor. 
Ye  dare  to  trust,  for  honest  fame, 

The  jury  Time  empanels. 
And  leave  to  truth  each  noble  name 

Which  glorifies  your  annals. 

Thy  songs,  Han  Sachs,  are  living  yet, 

In  strong  and  hearty  German  ; 
And  Bloomfield's  lay,  and  Gifford's  wit, 

And  patriot  fame  of  Sherman ; 
Still  from  his  book,  a  mystic  seer, 

The  soul  of  Behmen  teaches, 
And  England's  priestcraft  shakes  to  hear 

Of  Fox's  leathern  breeches. 

The  foot  is  yours ;  where'er  it  falls, 

It  treads  your  well-wrought  leather, 
On  earthen  floor,  in  marble  halls, 

On  carpet,  or  on  heather. 
Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 

Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's, 
As  Hebe's  foot  bore  nectar  round 

Among  the  old  celestials ! 

Rap,  rap  ! — your  stout  and  bluff  brogan, 

With  footsteps  slow  and  weary, 
May  wander  where  the  sky's  blue  span 

Shuts  down  upon  the  prairie. 
On  Beauty's  foot  your  slippers  glance, 

By  Saratoga's  fountains, 
Or  twinkle  down  the  summer  dance 

Beneath  the  Crystal  Mountains ! 

The  red  brick  to  the  mason's  hand, 

The  brown  earth  to  the  tiller's, 
The  shoe  in  yours  shall  wealth  command, 

Like  fairy  Cinderella's  ! 
As  they  who  shunned  the  household  maid 

Beheld  the  crown  upon  her, 
So  all  shall  sea  your  toil  repaid 

With  hearth  and  home  and  honor. 

Then  let  the  toast  be  freely  quaffed, 
In  water  cool  and  brimming, — 


THE  DROVERS.— THE  FISHERMEN. 


"All  honor  to  the  good  old  Craft, 
Its  merry  men  and  women  !  " 

Call  out  again  your  long  array, 
In  the  old  time's  pleasant  manner: 

Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 
Fling  out  his  blazoned  banner  ! 


THE  DROVERS. 

THROUGH  heat  and  cold,  and  shower  and  sun, 

Still  onward  cheerly  driving  ! 
There  's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 
But  see  !  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us  ; 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  footsore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
The  landlord  beckons  from  his  door, 

His  beechen  fire  is  glowing  ; 
These  ample  barns,  with  feed  in  store, 

Are  filled  to  overflowing. 

From  many  a  valley  frowned  across 

By  brows  of  rugged  mountains  ; 
From  hillsides  where,  through  spongy  moss, 

Gush  out  the  river  fountains  ; 
From  quiet  farm-fields,  green  and  low, 

And  bright  with  blooming  clover ; 
From  vales  of  corn  the  wandering  crow 

No  richer  hovers  over  ; 

Day  after  day  our  way  has  been, 

O'er  many  a  hill  and  hollow; 
By  lake  and  stream,  by  wood  and  glen, 

Our  stately  drove  we  follow. 
Through  dust-clouds  rising  thick  and  dun, 

As  smoke  of  battle  o'er  us, 
Their  white  horns  glisten  in  the  sun, 

Like  plumes  and  crests  before  us. 

We  see  them  slowly  climb  the  hill, 

As  slow  behind  it  sinking ; 
Or,  thronging  close,  from  roadside  rill, 

Or  sunny  lakelet,  drinking. 
Now  crowding  in  the  narrow  road, 

In  thick  and  struggling  masses, 
They  glare  upon  the  teamster's  load, 

Or  rattling  coach  that  passes. 

Anon,  with  toss*of  horn  and  tail, 

And  paw  of  hoof,  and  bellow, 
They  leap  some  farmer's  broken  pale, 

O'er  meadow-close  or  fallow. 
Forth  comes  the  startled  goodman ;  forth 

Wife,  children,  house-dog,  sally, 
Till  once  more  on  their  dusty  path 

The  baffled  truants  rally.  " 

We  drive  no  starvelings,  scraggy  grown, 

Loose-legged,  and  ribbed  and  bony, 
Like  those  who  grind  their  noses  down 

On  pastures  bare  and  stony, — 
Lank  oxen,  rough  as  Indian  dogs, 

And  cows  too  lean  for  shadows, 
Disputing  feebly  with  the  frogs 

The  crop  of  saw-grass  meadows  ! 

In  our  good  drove,  so  sleek  and  fair, 

No  bones  of  leanness  rattle  ; 
No  tottering  hide-bound  ghosts  are  there, 

Or  Pharaoh's  evil  cattle. 


Each  stately  beeve  bespeaks  the  hand 

That  fed  him  unrepining ; 
The  fatness  of  a  goodly  land 

In  each  dun  hide  is  shining. 

We've  sought  them  where,  in  warmest  nooks, 

The  freshest  feed  is  growing, 
By  sweetest  springs  and  clearest  brooks 

Through  honeysuckle  flowing  ; 
Wherever  hillsides,  sloping  south, 

Are  bright  with  early  grasses, 
Or,  tracking  green  the  lowland's  drouth, 

The  mountain  streamlet  passes. 

But  now  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us, 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 
The  cricket  to  the  frog's  bassoon 

His  shrillest  time  is  keeping  ; 
The  sickle  of  yon  setting  moon 

The  meadow-mist  is  reaping. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  footsore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
To-morrow,  eastward  with  our  charge 

We  '11  go  to  meet  the  dawning, 
Ere  yet  the  pines  of  Kearsarge 

Have  seen  the  sun  of  morning. 

When  snow-flakes  o'er  the  frozen  earth, 

Instead  of  birds,  are  flitting  ; 
When  children  throng  the  glowing  hearth, 

And  quiet  wives  are  knitting  ; 
While  in  the  fire-light  strong  and  clear 

Young  eyes  of  pleasure  glisten, 
To  tales  of  all  we  see  and  hear 

The  ears  of  home  shall  listen. 

By  many  a  Northern  lake  and  hill, 

From  many  a  mountain  pasture, 
Shall  Fancy  play  the  Drover  still, 

And  speed  the  long  night  faster. 
Then  let  us  on,  through  shower  and  sun, 

And  heat  and  cold,  be  driving  ; 
There 's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 


THE  FISHERMEN. 

HURRAH  !  the  seaward  breezes 

Sweep  down  the  bay  amain ; 
Heave  up,  my  lads,  the  anchor  ! 

Run  up  the  sail  again  ! 
Leave  to  the  lubber  landsmen 

The  rail-car  and  the  steed  ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed. 

From  the  hill-top  looks  the  steeple, 

And  the  lighthouse  from  the  sand ; 
And  the  scattered  pines  are  waving 

Their  farewell  from  the  land. 
One  glance,  my  lads,  behind  us, 

For  the  homes  we  leave  one  sigh, 
Ere  we  take  the  change  and  chances 

Of  the  ocean  and  the  sky. 

Now,  brothers,  for  the  icebergs 

Of  frozen  Labrador, 
Floating  spectral  in  the  moonshine, 

Along  the  low,  black  shore  ! 
Where  like  snow  the  gannet's  feathers 

On  Brador's  rocks  are  shed, 


THE  HUSKERS. 


"  Now,  brothers,  for  the  icebergs." 


And  the  noisy  murr  are  flying, 
Like  black  scuds,  overhead  ; 

Where  in  mist  the  rock  is  hiding, 

And  the  sharp  reef  lurks  below, 
And  the  white  squall  smites  in  summer, 

And  the  autumn  tempests  blow  ; 
Where,  through  gray  and  rolling  vapor, 

From  evening  unto  morn, 
A  thousand  boats  are  hailing, 

Horn  answering  unto  horn. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  Red  Island, 

With  the  white  cross  on  its  crown  ! 
Hurrah !  for  Meccatina, 

And  its  mountains  bare  and  brown  ! 
Where  the  Caribou's  tall  antlers 

O'er  the  dwarf -wood  freely  toss, 
And  the  footstep  of  the  Mickmack 

Has  no  sound  upon  the  moss. 

There  we  '11  drop  our  lines,  and  gather 

Old  Ocean's  treasures  in, 
Where'er  the  mottled  mackerel 

Turns  up  a  steel-dark  fin. 
The  sea  's  our  field  of  harvest, 

Its  scaly  tribes  our  grain ; 
We  '11  reap  the  teeming  waters 

As  at  home  they  reap  the  plain  ! 

Our  wet  hands  spread  the  carpet, 

And  light  the  hearth  of  home  ; 
From  our  fish,  as  in  the  old  time, 

The  silver  coin  shall  come. 
As  the  demon  fled  the  chamber 

Where  the  fish  of  Tobit  lay, 
So  ours  from  all  our  dwellings 

Shall  frighten  Want  away. 

Though  the  mist  upon  our  jackets 

In  the  bitter  air  congeals, 
And  our  lines  wind  stiff  and  slowly 

From  off  the  frozen  reels  ; 
Though  the  fog  be  dark  around  us, 

And  the  storm  blow  high  and  loud, 
We  will  whistle  down  the  wild  wind, 

And  laugh  beneath  the  cloud  ! 


In  the  darkness  as  in  daylight, 

On  the  water  as  on  land, 
God's  eye  is  looking  on  us, 

And  beneath  us  is  his  hand  ! 
Death  will  find  us  soon  or  later, 

On  the  deck  or  in  the  cot ; 
And  we  cannot  meet  him  better 

Than  in  working  out  our  lot. 

Hurrah  ! — hurrah  ! — the  west- wind 

Comes  freshening  down  the  bay, 
The  rising  sails  are  filling, — 

Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way  ! 
Leave  the  coward  landsman  clinging 

To  the  dull  earth,  like  a  weed,— 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed  ! 


THE  HUSKERS. 

IT  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autum 
nal  rain 

Had  left  the  summer  harvest-fields  all  green  with 
grass  again ; 

The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all  the 
woodlands  gay 

With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or  the  mea 
dow-flowers  of  May. 

Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning,  the  sun 

rose  broad  and  red, 
At  first  a  rayless  disk  of  fire,  he  brightened  as  he 

Yet,  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chastened  and 

subdued, 
On  the  cornfields  and  the  orchards,  and  softly 

pictured  wood. 

And  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping  to  the 

ni^ht, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with  yellow 

light ; 
Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he  glorified 

the  hill ; 
And,  beneath  it,  pond  and  meadow  lay  brighter, 

greener  still. 


THE  CORN  SONG. 


91 


And  shouting   boys  in  woodland  haunts  caught 

glimpses  of  that  sky, 
Flecked  by  the  many-tinted  leaves,  and  laughed, 

they  knew  not  why  ; 
And  school-girls,  gay  with  aster-flowers,  beside 

the  meadow  brooks, 
Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the  sunshine 

of  sweet  looks. 

From  spire  and  barn  looked  westerly  the  patient 
weathercocks ; 

But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  motionless 
as  rocks. 

No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save  the  squir 
rel's  dropping  shell, 

And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs,  low 
rustling  as  they  fell. 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested  ;  the  stubble- 
fields  lay  dry, 

Where  June  winds  rolled,  in  light  and  shade,  the 
pale  green  waves  of  rye ; 

But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys  fringed 
with  wood, 

Ungathered,  bleaching  in  the  sun,  the  heavy  corn 


Bent  low,  by  autumn's  wind  and  rain,  through 
husks  that,  dry  and  sere, 

Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone  out 
the  yellow  ear ; 

Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many  a 
verdant  fold, 

And  glistened  in  the  slanting  light  the  pump 
kin's  sphere  of  gold. 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters  ;  and  many  a 

creaking  wain 
Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-floor  its  load  of  husk 

and  grain ; 
Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the  sun  sank 

down,  at  last, 
And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the  day  in 

brightness  passed. 

And  lo !  as  through  the  western  pines,  on  mea 
dow,  stream,  and  pond, 

Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  all  afire  be 
yond, 

Slowly  o'er  the  eastern  sea-bluffs  a  milder  glory 
shone, 

And  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  were  mingled 
into  one ! 

As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight  lapsed 

away, 
And  deeper  in  the  brightening  moon  the  tranquil 

shadows  lay  ; 
From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and  hamlet 

without  name, 
Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done,  the 

merry  huskers  came. 

Swung  o'er  the  heaped-up  harvest,  from  pitch 
forks  in  the  mow, 

Shone  dimly  down  the  lanterns  on  the  pleasant 
scene  below ; 

The  growing  pile  of  husks  behind,  the  golden  ears 
before, 

And  laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands  and  brown 
cheeks  glimmering  o'er. 

Half  hidden  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of  look  and 
heart, 

Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men  sat 
apart ; 

While,  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile,  or  nest 
ling  in  its  shade, 

At  hide-and-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout,  the 
happy  children  played. 


Urged  by  the  good  host's  daughter,  a  maiden 

young  and  fair, 
Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and  pride  of 

soft  brown  hair, 
The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of  hair  and 

smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a  husking- 

ballad  sung. 


THE  CORN-SONG. 

HEAP  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard  ! 

Heap  high  the  golden  corn  ! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn  ! 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine ; 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 

Our  rugged  vales  bestow, 
To  cheer  us  when  the  storm  shall  drift 

Our  harvest-fields  with  snow. 

Through  vales  of  grass  and  meads  of  flowers, 
Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 

While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  showers 
Of  changeful  April  played. 

We  dropped  the  seed  o'er  hill  ana  plain, 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
And  frightened  from  our  sprouting  grain 

The  robber  crows  away. 

All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of  June 

Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 
And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 

Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 

And  now,  with  autumn's  moonlit  eves, 

Its  harvest-time  has  come, 
We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 

And  bear  the  treasure  home. 

There,  richer  than  the  fabled 'gift 

Apollo  showered  of  old, 
Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sift, 

And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 

Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk 

Around  their  costly  board  ; 
Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk, 

By  homespun  beauty  poured  ! 

Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 

Send«  up  its  smoky  curls, 
Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth, 

And  bless  our  farmer  girls  ! 

Then  shame  on  all  the  proud  and  vain, 

Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 
The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 

Our  wealth  of  golden  corn  ! 

Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root, 

Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 
Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit, 

The  wheat-field  to  the  fly : 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 

The  hills  our  fathers  trod ; 
Still  let  us,  for  his  golden  corn, 

Send  up  our  thanks  to  God  ! 


THE  LUMBERMEN. 


Make  \ve  here  our  camp  of  winter/ 


THE  LUMBERMEN. 

WILDLY  round  our  woodland  quarters, 

Sad-voiced  Autumn  grieves ; 
Thickly  down  these  swelling  waters 

Float  his  fallen  leaves. 
Through  the  tall  and  naked  timber, 

Column-like  and  old, 
Gleam  the  sunsets  of  November, 

From  their  skies  of  gold. 

O'er  us,  to  the  southland  heading, 

Screams  the  gray  wild-goose  ; 
On  the  night-frost  sounds  the  treading 

Of  the  brindled  moose. 
Noiseless  creeping,  while  we  're  sleeping, 

Frost  his  task-work  plies  ; 
Soon,  his  icy  bridges  heaping, 

Shall  our  log -piles  rise. 

When,  with  sounds  of  smothered  thunder, 

On  some  night  of  rain, 
Lake  and  river  break  asunder 

Winter's  weakened  chain, 
Down  the  wild  March  flood  shall  bear  them 

To  the  saw-mill's  wheel, 
Or  where  Steam,  the  slave,  shall  tear  them 

With  his  teeth  of  steel. 

Be  it  starlight,  be  it  moonlight, 

In  these  vales  below, 
When  the  earliest  beams  of  sunlight 

Streak  the  mountain's  snow, 
Crisps  the  hoar-frost,  keen  and  early, 

To  our  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  forest  echoes  clearly 

All  our  blows  repeat. 

Where  the  crystal  Ambijejis 

Stretches  broad  and  clear, 
And  Millnoket's  pine-black  ridges 

Hide  the  browsing  deer  : 
Where,  through  lakes  and  wide  morasses, 

Or  through  rocky  walls, 
Swift  and  strong,  Penobscot  passes 

White  with  foamy  falls  ; 

Where,  through  clouds,  are  glimpses  given 

Of  Katahdin's  sides, — 
Rock  and  forest  piled  to  heaven, 

Torn  and  ploughed  by  slides  ! 
Far  below,  the  Indian  trapping, 

In  the  sunshine  warm ; 
Far  above,  the  snow-cloud  wrapping 

Half  the  peak  in  storm  ! 


Where  are  mossy  carpets  better 

Than  the  Persian  weaves, 
And  than  Eastern  perfumes  sweeter 

Seem  the  fading  leaves  ; 
And  a  music  wild  and  solemn, 

From  the  pine-tree's  height, 
Rolls  its  vast  and  sea-like  volume 

On  the  wind  of  night ; 

Make  we  here  our  camp  of  winter ; 

And,  through  sleet  and  snow, 
Pitchy  knot  and  beechen  splinter 

On  our  hearth  shall  glow. 
Here,  with  mirth  to  lighten  duty, 

We  shall  lack  alone 
Woman's  smile  and  girlhood's  beauty, 

Childhood's  lisping  tone. 

But  their  hearth  is  brighter  burning 

For  our  toil  to-day  ; 
And  the  welcome  of  returning 

Shall  our  loss  repay, 
AVhen,  like  seamen  from  the  waters, 

From  the  woods  we  come, 
Greeting  sisters,  wives,  and  daughters, 

Angels  of  our  home  ! 

Not  for  us  the  measured  ringing 

From  the  village  spire, 
Not  for  us  the  Sabbath  singing 

Of  the  sweet-voiced  choir  : 
Ours  the  old,  majestic  temple, 

Where  God's  brightness  shines 
Down  the  dome  so  grand  and  ample, 

Propped  by  lofty  pines  ! 

Through  each  branch-eiiwoven  skylight, 

Speaks  He  in  the  breeze, 
As  of  old  beneath  the  twilight 

Of  lost  Eden's  trees  ! 
For  his  ear,  the  inward  feeling 

Needs  no  outward  tongue  ; 
He  can  see  the  spirit  kneeling 

While  the  axe  is  swung. 

Heeding  truth  alone,  and  turning 

From  the  false  and  dim, 
Lamp  of  toil  or  altar  burning 

Are  alike  to  Him. 
Strike,  then,  comrades  !— Trade  is  waiting 

On  our  rugged  toil ; 
Far  ships  waiting  for  the  freighting 

Of  our  woodland  spoil ! 

Ships,  whose  traffic  links  these  highlands, 
Bleak  and  cold,  of  ours, 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUEXA  VISTA. 


With  the  citron-planted  islands 

Of  a  clime  of  flowers  ; 
To  our  frosts  the  tribute  bringing 

Of  eternal  heats ; 
In  our  lap  of  winter  flinging 

Tropic  fruits  and  sweets. 


Cheerly,  on  the  axe  of  labor, 

Let  the  sunbeams  dance, 
Better  than  the  flash  of  sabre 

Or  the  gleam  of  lance  ! 
Strike  ! — With  every  blow  is  given 

Freer  sun  and  sky, 
And  the  long-hid  earth  to  heaven 

Looks,  with  wondering  eye  ! 


Loud  behind  us  grow  the  murmurs 

Of  the  age  to  come ; 
Clang  of  smiths,  and  tread  of  farmers, 

Bearing  harvest  home ! 
Here  her  virgin  lap  with  treasures 

Shall  the  green  earth  fill ; 
Waving  Avheat  and  golden  maize-ears 

Crown  each  beechen  hill. 


Keep  who  will  the  city's  alleys, 

Take  the  smooth-shorn  plain, — 
Give  to  us  the  cedar  valleys, 

Rocks  and  hills  of  Maine ! 
In  our  North-land,  wild  and  woody, 

Let  us  still  have  part : 
Rugged  nurse  and  mother  sturdy, 

Hold  us  to  thy  heart ! 

O,  our  free  hearts  beat  the  warmer 

For  thy  breath  of  snow  ; 
And  our  tread  is  all  the  firmer 

For  thy  rocks  below. 
Freedom,  hand  in  hand  with  labor, 

Walketh  strong  and  brave  ; 
On  the  forehead  of  his  neighbor 

No  man  writeth  Slave  ! 

Lo,  the  day  breaks  !  old  Katahdin's 

Pine-trees  show  its  fires, 
While  from  these  dim  forest  gardens 

Rise  their  blackened  spires. 
Up,  my  comrades  !  up  and  doing  ! 

Manhood's  rugged  play 
Still  renewing,  bravely  hewing 

Through  the  world  our  way  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA. 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  north 
ward  far  away, 

O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican 
array, 

Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  V  are  they  far  or 
come  they  near  ? 

Look  abroad,  and  tell  its,  sister,  whither  rolls  the 
storm  we  hear. 

41  Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of 

battle  rolls ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying  ;  God  have  mercy 

on  their  souls  !  " 
Who  is  losing  "i  who  is  winning  V — "Over  hill  and 

over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the 

mountain  rain." 

Holy  Mother  !  keep  our  brothers  !  Look,  Ximena, 
look  once  more. 

4 '  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly 
as  before, 

Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and  foe- 
man,  foot  and  horse, 

Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping 
down  its  mountain  course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  !  "  Ah  !  the 
smoke  has  rolled  away  ; 

And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the 
ranks  of  gray. 

Hark  !  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles  !  there  the 
troop  of  Minon  wheels  ; 

There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  can 
non  at  their  heels. 

"  Jesu,  pity  !  how  it  thickens  !    now  retreat  and 

now  advance ! 
Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's 

charging  lance ! 


Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders  ;  horse  and 

foot  together  fall ; 
Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them 

ploughs  the  Northern  ball. " 


Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast 
and  frightful  on  ! 

Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost, 
and  who  has  won  ? 

14  Alas  !  alas  !  I  know  not ;  friend  and  foe  to 
gether  fall, 

O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living  :  pray,  my  sisters, 
for  them  all ! 


uLo!    the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting:    Blessed 

Mother,  save  my  brain  ! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from 

heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding  ;  now  they 

fall,  and  strive  to  rise ; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they 

die  before  our  eyes  ! 


"  O  my  heart's  love !    O  my  dear  one  !  lay  thy 

poor  head  on  my  knee  : 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee  ?    Canst 

thou  hear  me  ?  canst  thou  see  ? 
O  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle  !  O  my  Bernal, 

look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee  !  Mercy  !  mercy ! 

all  is  o'er  !  " 


Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena ;  lay  thy  dear 

one  down  to  rest ; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross 

upon  his  breast ; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral 

masses  said  : 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask 

thy  aid. 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA.— FORGIVENESS. 


"  But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  struggling  breath  of  pain, 
And  ehe  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips  again."' 


Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young, 
a  soldier  lay, 

Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding 
slow  his  life  away  ; 

But,  as  tenderly  before  him  the  lorn  Ximena 
knelt, 

She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol- 
belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned 

away  her  head ; 
With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back 

upon  her  dead ; 
But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his 

struggling  breath  of  pain, 
And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching 

lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,    pressed   her 

hand  and  faintly  smiled  : 
Was  that  pitying  face  his   mother's  V    did  she 

watch  beside  her  child  ? 
All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's 

heart  supplied ; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,    "  Mother  !  " 

murmured  he,  and  died  ! 


*'A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led 

thee  forth, 
Prom  some  gentle,    sad-eyed  mother,  weeping, 

lonely,  in  the  North  !  " 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid 

him  with  her  dead, 
And  turned  to   soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the 

wounds  which  bled. 


Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  !  "  Like  a  cloud 

before  the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving 

blood  and  death  behind ; 


Ah !  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy  ;  in  the  dust 

the  wounded  strive ; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels  !  O  thou  Christ  of 

God,  forgive  !  " 

Sink,  O  Night,  among  thy  mountains!  let  the 
cool,  gray  shadows  fall ; 

Dying  brothers,  lighting  demons,  drop  thy  cur 
tain  over  all ! 

Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide 
apart  the  battle  rolled, 

In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's 
lips  grew  cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task 

pursued, 
Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn 

and  faint  and  lacking  food. 
Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender 

care  they  hung, 
And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange 

and  Northern  tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father  !  is  this  evil  world  of 

ours ; 
Upward,    through   its  blood   and    ashes,    spring 

afresh  the  Eden  flowers ; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and  Pity 

send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in 

our  air ! 


FORGIVENESS. 

MY  heart  was  heavy,  for  its  trust  had  been 
Abused,  its  kindness  answered  with  foul  wrong  ; 

So,  turning  gloomily  from  my  fellow-men, 
One  summer  Sabbath  day  I  strolled  among 

The  green  mounds  of  the  village  burial  place  ; 
Where,  pondering  how  all  human  love  and  hate 
Find  one  sad  level ;  and  how,  soon  or  late, 


BARCLAY  OF  URY. 


95 


Wronged   and  wrongdoer,  each  with  meekened 

face, 

And  cold  hands  folded  over  a  still  heart, 
Pass  the  green  threshold  of  our  common  grave, 
Whither  all  footsteps  tend,  whence  none  de 
part, 

Awed  for  myself,  and  pitying  my  race, 
Our  common  sorrow,  like  a  mighty  wave, 
Swept  all  my  pride  away,  and  trembling  I  for 
gave! 


BARCLAY  OF  URY.42 

UP  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 
By  the  kirk  and  college  green, 

Rode  the  Laird  of  Ury ; 
Close  behind  him,  close  beside, 
Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed, 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 
Jeered  at  him  the  serving-girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master; 
And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury's  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her. 

Yet,  with  calm  and  stately  mien, 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 

Came  he  slowly  riding  : 
And,  to  all  he  saw  and  heard, 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came  a  troop  with  broadswords  swinging, 
-Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 

Loose  and  free  and  froward ; 
Quoth  the  foremost,  "  Ride  him  down  ! 
Push  him  !  prick  him !  through  the  town 

Drive  the  Quaker  coward  !  " 

But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a  sudden  voice  and  loud  : 

"Barclay  !     Ho  !  a  Barclay  !  " 
And  the  old  man  at  his  side 
Saw  a  comrade,  battle  tried, 

Scarred  and  sunburned  darkly ; 

Who  with  ready  weapon  bare, 
Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 

Cried  aloud :  "God  save  us, 
Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood 
Ankle  deep  in  Lutzen's  blood, 

With  the  brave  Gustavus  ?  " 

"Nay,  I  do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,"  said  Ury's  lord  ; 

"  Put  it  up,  I  pray  thee  : 
Passive  to  his  holy  will, 
Trust  I  in  my  Master  still, 

Even  though  he  slay  me. 

"  Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 
Proved  on  many  a  field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed." 
Marvelled  much  that  henchman  bold 
That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

"  Woe 's  the  day  !  "  he  sadly  said, 
With  a  slowly  shaking  head, 

And  a  look  of  pity  ; 
"  Ury's  honest  lord  reviled, 
Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 

In  his  own  good  city ! 

"  Speak  the  word,  and,  master  mine, 
As  we  charged  on  Tilly's  line, 
And  his  Walloon  lancers, 


Smiting  through  their  midst  we  '11  teach" 
Civil  look  and  decent  speech 
To  these  boyish  prancers  !  " 

"Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend, 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end  "  : 

Quoth  the  Laird  of  Ury, 
"  Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 

Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry  ? 

"  Give  me  joy  that  in  his  name 
I  can  bear,  with  patient  frame, 

All  these  vain  ones  offer  ; 
While  for  them  He  suffereth  long, 
Shall  I  answer  wrong  with  wrong, 

Scoffing  with  the  scoffer  ? 

"  Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all, 
Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me, 
Than  when  reeve  and  squire  were  seen, 
Riding  out  from  Aberdeen, 

With  bared  heads  to  meet  me. 

"  When  each  goodwife,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Blessed  me  as  I  passed  her  door ; 

And  the  snooded  daughter, 
Through  her  casement  glancing  down, 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 

From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 

"Hard  to  feel  the  stranger's  scoff, 
Hard  the  old  friend's  falling  off, 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving  : 
But  the  Lord  his  own  rewards, 
And  his  love  with  theirs  accords, 

Warm  and  fresh  and  living. 

"  Through  this  dark  and  stormy  night 
Faith  beholds  a  feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness  streaking ; 
nowing  God's  own  time  is  best, 
In  a  patient  hope  I  rest 

For  the  full  day-breaking  !  " 

So  the  Laird  of  Ury  said, 
Turning  slow  his  horse's  head 

Towards  the  Tolbooth  prison, 
Where,  through  iron  gates,  he  heard 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen  1 

Not  in  vain,  Confessor  old, 
Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 

Of  thy  day  of  trial ; 
Every  age  on  him,  who  strays 
From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways, 

Pours  its  sevenfold  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 
Angel  comf  ortings  can  hear, 

O'er  the  rabble's  laughter  ; 
And  while  Hatred's  fagots  burn, 
Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Knowing  this,  that  never  yet 
Share  of  Truth  was  vainly  set 

In  the  world's  wide  fallow  ; 
After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 
After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 

Thus,  with  somewhat  of  the  Seer, 
Must  the  moral  pioneer 

From  the  Future  borrow  ; 
Clothe  the  waste  with  dreams  of  grain, 
And,  on  midnight's  sky  of  rain, 

Paint  the  golden  morrow  ! 


9G 


WHAT  THE  VOICE  SAID.— TO  DELAWARE.— WORSHIP. 


WHAT  THE  VOICE  SAID. 

MADDENED  by  Earth's  wrong  and  evil, 

"  Lord  !  "  I  cried  in  sudden  ire, 
"From  thy  right  hand,  clothed  with  thunder, 

Shake  the  bolted  fire  ! 

4k  Love  is  lost,  and  Faith  is  dying  ; 

With  the  brute  the  man  is  sold  ; 
And  the  dropping  blood  of  labor 

Hardens  into  gold. 

"  Here  the  dying  wail  of  Famine, 
There  the  battle's  groan  of  pain  ; 

And,  in  silence,  smooth-faced  Mammon 
Reaping  men  like  grain. 

"  l  Where  is  God,  that  we  should  fear  Him  ?  ' 
Thus  the  earth-born  Titans  say  ; 

4  God  !  if  thou  art  living,  hear  us  ! ' 
Thus  the  weak  ones  pray." 

"  Thou,  the  patient  Heaven  upbraiding," 

Spake  a  solemn  Voice  within  ; 
41  Weary  of  our  Lord's  forbearance, 

Art  thou  free  from  sin  ? 

"  Fearless  brow  to  Him  uplifting. 

Canst  thou  for  his  thunders  call, 
Knowing  that  to  guilt's  attraction 

Evermore  they  fall  V 

41  Know'st  thou  not  all  germs  of  evil 

In  thy  heart  await  their  time  ? 
Not  thyself,  but  God's  restraining, 

Stays  their  growth  of  crime. 

u  Couldst  thou  boast,  O  child  of  weakness  ! 

O'er  the  sons  of  wrong  and  strife, 
Were  their  strong  temptations  planted 

In  thy  path  of  life  V 

"  Thou  hast  seen  two  streamlets  gushing 
From  one  fountain,  clear  and  free, 

But  by  widely  varying  channels 
Searching  for  the  sea. 

"  Glideth  one  through  greenest  valleys, 
Kissing  them  with  lips  still  sweet ; 

One,  mad  roaring  down  the  mountains, 
Stagnates  at  their  feet. 

"  Is  it  choice  whereby  the  Parsee 
Kneels  before  his  mother's  fire  ? 

In  his  black  tent  did  the  Tartar 
Choose  his  wandering  sire  ? 

uHe  alone,  whose  hand  is  bounding 

Human  power  and  human  will, 
Looking  through  each  soul's  surrounding, 

Knows  its  good  or  ill. 

"For  thyself,  while  wrong  and  sorrow 
Make  to  thee  their  strong  appeal, 

Coward  wert  thou  not  to  utter 
What  the  heart  must  feel. 

"  Earnest  words  must  needs  be  spoken 
When  the  warm  heart  bleeds  or  burns 

With  its  scorn  of  wrong,  or  pity 
For  the  wronged,  by  turns. 

"  But,  by  all  thy  nature's  weakness, 
Hidden  faults  and  follies  known, 

Be  thou,  in  rebuking  evil, 
Conscious  of  thine  own. 

41  Not  the  less  shall  stern-eyed  Duty 
To  thy  lips  her  trumpet  set, 


But  with  harsher  blasts  shall  mingle 
Wailings  of  regret." 

Cease  not,  Voice  of  holy  speaking, 

Teacher  sent  of  God,  be  near, 
Whispering  through  the  day's  cool  silence, 

Let  my  spirit  hear  ! 

So,  when  thoughts  of  evil-doers 
Waken  scorn,  or  hatred  move, 

Shall  a  mournful  fellow-feeling 
Temper  all  with  love. 


TO  DELAWARE. 

[Written  during  the  discussion  in  the  Legislature  of 
that  State,  in  the  winter  of  1846-47,  of  a  bill  for  the 
abolition  of  slavery.] 

THBICE  welcome  to  thy  sisters  of  the  East, 

To  the  strong  tillers  of  a  rugged  home, 
With  spray -wet  locks  to  Northern  winds  released, 

And  hardy  feet  o'erswept  by  ocean's  foam ; 
And  to  the  young  nymphs  of  the  golden  West, 

Whose  harvest  mantles,  fringed  with  prairie 

bloom, 
Trail  in  the  sunset, — O  redeemed  and  blest, 

To  the  warm  welcome  of  thy  sisters  come  ! 
Broad  Pennsylvania,  down  her  sail- white  bay 

Shall  give  thee  joy,  and  Jersey  from  her  plains, 
And  the  great  lakes,  where  echo,  free  alway, 

Moaned    never  shoreward  with  the  clank  of 

chains, 

Shall  weave  new  sun-bows  in  their  tossing  spray, 
And  all  their  waves  keep  grateful  holiday. 
And,  smiling  on  thee  through  her  mountain  rains, 

Vermont   shall  bless  thee;    and   the    Granite 

peaks, 

And  vast  Katahdin  o'er  his  woods,  shall  wear 
Their  snow-crowns  brighter  in  the  cold  keen  air  ; 

And  Massachusetts,  with  her  rugged  cheeks 
O'errun  with  grateful  tears,  shall  turn  to  thee, 

When,  at  thy  bidding,  the  electric  wire 

Shall  tremble  northward  with  its  words  of  fire  ; 
Glory  and  praise  to  God  !  another  State  is  free  ! 


WORSHIP. 

•'Pure  religion,  and  undented,  before  God  and  the 
Father  is  this :  To  visit  the  widows  and  the  fatherless  in 
their  affliction,  and  to  keep  himself  unspotted  from  the 
world." — James  i.  27. 

THE    Pagan's    myths    through   marble  lips   are 
spoken, 

And  ghosts  of  old  Beliefs  still  flit  and  moan 
Round  fane  and  altar  overthrown  and  broken, 

O'er  tree-grown  barrow  and  gray  ring  of  stone. 

Blind  Faith  had  martyrs  in  those  old  high  places, 
The  Syrian  hill  grove  and  the  Druid's  wood, 

With  mother's  offering,  to  the  Fiend's  embraces, 
Bone  of  their  bone,   and  blood  of  their  own 
blood. 

Red  altars,  kindling  through  that  night  of  error, 
Smoked  with  warm  blood  beneath  the  cruel  eye 

Of  lawless  Power  and  sanguinary  Terror, 
Throned  on  the  circle  of  a  pitiless  sky  ; 

Beneath  whose  baleful  shadow,  overcasting 
All  heaven  above,  and  blighting  earth  below. 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY. 


97 


The  scourge  grew  red,   the  lip    grew   pale  with 

fasting, 
And  man's  oblation  was  his  fear  and  woe  ! 

Then  through  great  temples  swelled  the  dismal 
moaning 

Of  dirge-Jike  music  and  sepulchral  prayer  ;  _ 
Pale  wizard  priests,  o'er  occult  symbols  droning, 

Swung  their  white  censers  in  the  burdened  air  : 

As  if  the  pomp  of  rituals,  and  the  savor 

Of  gums   and   spices   could   the   Unseen   One 


As  if  his  ear  could  bend,  with  childish  favor, 
To  the  poor  flattery  of  the  organ  keys  ! 

Feet  red  from  war-fields  trod  the  church  aisles 

holy, 
With  trembling  reverence :  and  the  oppressor 

there, 

Kneeling  before  his  priest,  abased  and  lowly, 
Crushed  human  hearts  beneath   his   knee    of 
prayer. 

Not  such  the  service  the  benignant  Father 
Requireth  at  his  earthly  children's  hands  : 

Not  the  poor  offering  of  vain  rites,  but  rather 
The  simple  duty  man  from  man  demands. 

For  Earth  he  asks  it :  the  full  joy  of  Heaven 
Knoweth  no  change  of  waning  or  increase ; 

The  great  heart  of  trie  Infinite  beats  even, 
Untroubled  flows  the  river  of  his  peace. 

He  asks  no  taper  lights,  on  high  surrounding 
The  priestly  altar  and  the  saintly  grave, 

No  doloroas  chant  nor  organ  music  sounding, 
Nor  incense  clouding  up  the  twilight  nave. 

For  he  whom  Jesus  loved  hath  truly  spoken  : 
The  holier  worship  which  he  deigns  to  bless 

Restores  the  lost,  and  binds  the  spirit  broken, 
And  feeds  the  widow  and  the  fatherless  ! 

Types  of  our  human  weakness  and  our  sorrow  ! 

Who  lives  unhaunted  by  his  loved  ones  dead  ? 
Who,  with  vain  longing,  seeketh  not  to  borrow 

From  stranger  eyes  the  home  lights  which  have 
fled? 

O  brother  man  !  fold  to  thy  heart  thy  brother ; 

Where  pity  dwells,  the  peace  of  God  is  there  ; 
To  worship  rightly  is  to  love  each  other, 

Each  smile  a  hymn,  each  kindly  deed  a  prayer. 

Follow  with  reverent  steps  the  great  example 
Of  Him  whose  holy  work  was  l<  doing  good  "  ; 

So  shall  the  wide  earth  seem  our  Father's  temple, 
Each  loving  life  a  psalm  of  gratitude. 

Then  shall  all  shackles  fall ;  the  stormy  clangor 
Of  wild  war  music  o'er  the  earth  shall  cease  ; 

Love  shall  tread  out  the  baleful  fire  of  anger, 
And  in  its  ashes  plant  the  tree  of  peace  ! 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY. 

THE  Brownie  sits  in  the  Scotchman's  room, 
And  eats  his  meat  and  drinks  his  ale, 

And  beats  the  maid  with  her  unused  broom, 
And  the  lazy  lout  with  his  idle  nail, 

But  he  sweeps  the  floor  and  threshes  the  corn, 

And  hies  him  away  ere  the  break  of  dawn. 

The  shade  of  Denmark  fled  from  the  sun, 
And   the   Cocklane  ghost  from  the   barn-loft 
cheer, 

The  fiend  of  Faust  was  a  faithful  one, 
Agrippa's  demon  wrought  in  fear, 


And  the  devil  of  Martin  Luther  sat 
By  the  stout  monk's  side  in  social  chat. 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  the  neck  of  him 
Who  seven  times  crossed  the  deep, 

Twined  closely  each  lean  and  withered  limb, 
Like  the  nightmare  in  one's  sleep. 

But  he  drank  of  the  wine,  and  Sindbad  cast 

The  evil  weight  from  his  back  at  last. 

But  the  demon  that  cometh  day  by  da 
To  my  quiet  room  and  fireside  nook, 
Where  the  casement  light  falls  dim  and  gray 

On  faded  painting  and  ancient  book, 
i  Is  a  sorrier  one  than  any  whose  names 
!  Are  chronicled  well  by  good  King  James. 

i  No  bearer  of  burdens  liko  Caliban, 
j  No  runner  of  errands  like  Ariel, 
i  He  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  old  man, 

Without  rap  cf  knuckle  or  pull  of  bell  ; 
i  And  whence  he  comes,  or  whither  he  goes, 
!  I  know  as  I  do  of  the  wind  which  blows. 

I  A  stout  old  man  with  a  greasy  hat 

Slouched  heavily  down  to  his  dark,  red  nose, 

i  And  two  gray  eyes  enveloped  in  fat, 

Looking  through  glasses  with  iron  bows. 
Read  ye,  and  heed  ye,  and  ye  who  can, 

j  Guard  well  your  doors  from  that  old  man  ! 

i  He  comes  with  a  careless  "How  d'  ye  do  ?  " 
And  seats  himself  in  my  elbow-chair  ; 

i  And  my  morning  paper  and  pamphlet  new 
Fall  forthwith  under  his  special  care, 

I  And  ha  wipes  his  glasses  and  clears  his  throat, 

j  A.nd,  button  by  button,  unfolds  his  coat. 

j  And  then  he  reads  from  paper  and  book, 

In  a  low  and  husky  asthmatic  tone, 
i  With  the  stolid  sameness  of  posture  and  look 

Of  one  who  reads  to  himself  alone  ; 
I  And  hour  after  hour  on  my  senses  come 
|  That  husky  wheeze  and  that  dolorous  hum. 
i 
The  price  of  stocks,  the  auction  sales,  / 

The  poet's  song  and  the  lover's  glee, 
i  The  horrible  murders,  the  seaboard  gales, 

The  marriage  list,  and  the  jeu  (Vcxprit, 
\  All  reach  my  ear  in  the  self-same  tone,— 
j  I  shudder  at  each,  but  the  fiend  reads  on  ! 

j  O,  sweet  as  the  lapse  of  water  at  noon 
O'er  the  mossy  roots  of  some  forest  tree, 

!  The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  woods  of  June, 
Or  sound  of  flutes  o'er  a  moonlight  sea, 

I  Or  the  low  soft  music,  perchance,  which  seems 

i  To  float  through  the  slumbering  singer's  dreams, 

j  So  sweet,  so  dear  is  the  silvery  tone, 

Of  her  in  whose  features  I  sometimes  look, 
As  1  sit  at  eve  by  her  side  alone, 

And   we    read  by   turns   from  the    self-same 

book,— 

Some  tale  perhaps  of  the  olden  time, 
Some  lover's  romance  or  quaint  old  rhyme. 

Then  when  the  story  is  one  of  woe,  — 
Some  prisoner's  plaint  through  his  dungeon- 
bar, 

Her  blue  eye  glistens  with  tears,  and  low 
Her  voice  sinks  down  like  a  moan  afar  ; 

And  I  seem  to  hear  that  prisoner's  wail, 

And  his  face  looks  on  me  worn  and  pale. 

And  when  she  reads  some  merrier  song, 

Her  voice  is  glad  as  an  April  bird's, 
And  when  the  tale  is  of  war  and  wron 


A  trumpet's  summons  is  in  her  wo 


rong, 
ords, 


98 


THE  PUMPKIN.— EXTRACT  FROM  "A  NEW  ENGLAND  LEGEND.' 


And  the  rush  of  the  hosts  I  seem  to  hear, 
And  see  the  tossing  of  plume  and  spear  ! — 

O,  pity  me  then,  when,  day  by  day, 

The  stout  fiend  darkens  my  parlor  door  ; 

And  reads  me  perchance  the  self-same  lay 
Which  melted  in  music,  the  night  before, 

From  lips  as  the  lips  of  Hylas  sweet, 

And  moved  like  twin  roses  which  zephyrs  meet ! 

I  cross  my  floor  with  a  nervous  tread, 
I  whistle  and  laugh  and  sing  and  shout, 

I  flourish  my  cane  above  his  head, 
And  stir  up  the  fire  to  roast  him  out ; 

I  topple  the  chairs,  and  drum  on  the  pane, 

And  press  my  hands  on  my  ears,  in  vain  ! 

I  Ve  studied  Glanville  and  James  the  wise, 
And  wizard  black-letter  tomes  which  treat 

Of  demons  of  every  name  and  size, 
Which  a  Christian  man  is  presumed  to  meet, 

But  never  a  hint  and  never  a  line 

Can  I  find  of  a  reading  fiend  like  mine. 

I  Ve  crossed  the  Psalter  with  Brady  and  Tate, 
Andy  laid  the  Primer  above  them  all, 

I  "ve  nailed  a  horseshoe  over  the  grate, 
And  hung  a  wig  to  my  parlor  wall 

Once  worn  by  a  learned  Judge,  they  say, 

At  Salem  court  in  the  witchcraft  day  ! 

"•  Conjure  te,  scderatissime, 

Abire  ad  tuum  locum!  " — still 
Like  a  visible  nightmare  he  sits  by  me, — 

The  exorcism  has  lost  its  skill ; 
And  I  hear  again  in  "my  haunted  room 
The  husky  wheeze  and  the  dolorous  hum  ! 

Ah  ! — commend  me  to  Mary  Magdalen 
With  her  sevenfold  plagues, — to  the  wander 
ing  Jew, 

To  the  terrors  which  haunted  Orestes  when 
The  furies  his  midnight  curtains  drew, 

But  charm  him  off,  ye  who  charm  him  can, 

That  reading  demon,  that  fat  old  man ! 


THE  PUMPKIN. 

O,  GREENLY  and  fair  in  the  lands  of  the  sun, 

The  vines  of  the  gourd  and  the  rich  melon  run, 

And  the  rock  and  the  tree  and  the  cottage  en 
fold, 

With  broad  leaves  all  greenness  and  blossoms  all 
gold, 

Like  that  which  o'er  Nineveh's  prophet  once 
grew. 

While  he  waited  to  know  that  his  warning  was 
true, 

And  longed  for  the  storm-cloud,  and  listened  in 
vain 

For  the  rush  of  the  whirlwind  and  red  fire-rain. 

On   the   banks  of  the  Xenil   the   dark  Spanish 

maiden 
Comes   up  with  the  fruit  of  the  tangled  vine 

laden ; 

And  the  Creole  of  Cuba  laughs  out  to  behold 
Through  orange-leaves  shining  the  broad  spheres 

of  gold  ; 
Yet  with  dearer  delight  from  his  home  in  the 

North, 
On  the  fields  of  his  harvest  the  Yankee   looks 

forth, 
Where  crook-necks  are  coiling  and  yellow  fruit 

shines, 
And  the  sun  of  September  melts  down  on  his 

vines. 


Ah  !  on  Thanksgiving  day,  when  from  East  and 

from  West, 
From  North  and  from  South  come  the  pilgrim 

and  guest, 
When  the  gray-haired  New  Englander  sees  round 

his  board 

!  The  old  broken  links  of  affection  restored, 
j  When  the   care-wearied   man   seeks   his  mother 

once  more, 
j  And  the  worn  matron  smiles  where  the  girl  smiled 

before, 
What  moistens  the  lip  and  what  brightens  the 

eye  ? 
What  calls  back  the  past,  like  the  rich  Pumpkin 

pie? 


j  O, — fruit  loved  of  boyhood  ! — the  old  days  recall 
ing, 
WTien  wood-grapes  were  purpling  and  brown  nuts 

were  falling ! 
When  wild,  ugly  faces  we  carved  in  its  skin, 

!  Glaring  out  through  the  dark  with  a  candle  with 
in  ! 

!  When  we  laughed   round    the    corn-heap,    with 
hearts  all  in  tune, 

j  Our   chair  a   broad   pumpkin, — our  lantern   the 

moon, 

Telling   tales  of    the    fairy  who  travelled    like 
steam, 

•  In  a  pumpkin-shell  coach,  with  two  rats  for  her 
team  ! 

Then  thanks  for  thy  present !— none  sweeter  or 

better 

E'er  smoked  from  an  oven  or  circled  a  platter  ! 
Fairer  hands  never  wrought  at  a  pastry  more  fine, 
j  Brighter  eyes  never  watched  o'er  its  baking,  than 

thine ! 
!  And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is  too  full  to 

express, 
,  Swells  my  heart  that  thy  shadow  may  never  be 

less, 

1  That  the  days  of  thy  lot  may  be  lengthened  below. 
And  the  fame  of  thy  worth  like  a  pumpkin- vine 

grow, 

1  And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last  sunset  sky 
!  Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own  Pumpkin  pie  ! 


EXTRACT  FROM  "A  NEW  ENGLAND 
LEGEND." 

How  has  New  England's  romance  fled, 

Even  as  a  vision  of  the  morning  ! 
Its  rites  foredone, — its  guardians  dead, — 
Its  priestesses,  bereft  of  dread, 

Waking  the  veriest  urchin's  scorning  ! 
Gone  like  the  Indian  wizard's  yell 

And  fire-dance  round  the  magic  rock, 
Forgotten  like  the  Druid's  spell 

At  mooiirise  by  his  holy  oak  ! 
No  more  along  the  shadowy  glen, 
Glide  the  dim  ghosts  of  murdered  men  ; 
No  more  the  unquiet  churchyard  dead 
Glimpse  upward  from  their  turfy  bed, 

Startling  the  traveller,  late  and  lone  ; 
As,  on  some  night  of  starless  weather, 
They  silently  commune  together, 

Each  sitting  on  his  own  head-stone  ! 
The  roofless  house,  decayed,  deserted, 
Its  living  tenants  all  departed, 
No  longer  rings  with  midnight  revel 
Of  witch,  or  ghost,  or  goblin  evil ; 
No  pale  blue  flame  sends  out  its  flashes 
Through  creviced  roof  and  shattered  sashes  ! — 
The  witch-grass  round  the  hazel  spring 
May  sharply  to  the  night-air  sing, 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 


99 


But  there  no  more  shall  withered  hags 

Refresh  at  ease  their  broomstick  nags, 

Or  taste  those  hazel-shadowed  waters 

As  beverage  meet  for  Satan's  daughters  ; 

No  more  their  mimic  tones  be  heard, — 

The  mew  of  cat, — the  chirp  of  bird, — 

Shrill  blending  with  the  hoarser  laughter 

Of  the  fell  demon  following  after  ! 

The  cautious  goodman  nails  no  more 

A  horseshoe  on  his  outer  door, 

Lest  some  unseemly  hag  should  fit 

To  his  own  mouth  her  bridle-bit, — 

The  goodwife's  churn  no  more  refuses 

Its  wonted  culinary  uses 

Until,  with  heated  needle  burned, 

The  witch  has  to  her  place  returned  ! 

Our  witches  are  no  longer  old 

And  wrinkled  beldames,  Satan-sold, 

But  young  and  gay  and  laughing  creatures, 

With  the  heart's  sunshine  on  their  features, — 

Their  sorcery — the  light  which  dances 

Where  the  raised  lid  unveils  its  glances  ; 

Or  that  low-breathed  and  gentle  tone, 

The  music  of  Love's  twilight  hours, 
Soft,  dream-like,  as  a  fairy's  moan 

Above  her  nightly  closing  flowers, 
Sweeter  than  that  which  sighed  of  yore 
Along  the  charmed  Ausonian  shore  ! 
Even  she,  our  own  weird  heroine, 
Sole  Pythoness  of  ancient  Lynn, 

Sleeps  calmly  where  the  living  laid  her ; 
And  the  wide  realm  of  Sorcery, 
Left  by  its  latest  mistress  free, 

Hath  found  no  gray  and  skilled  invader  : 
So  perished  Albion's  u  glammarye," 

With  him  in  Melrose  Abbey  sleeping, 
His  charmed  torch  beside  his  knee, 
That  even  the  dead  himself  might  see 

The  magic  scroll  within  his  keeping. 
And  now  our  modern  Yankee  sees 
Nor  omens,  spells,  nor  mysteries  ; 
And  naught  above,  below,  around, 
Of  life  or  death,  of  sight  or  sound, 

Whate'er  its  nature,  form,  or  look, 
Excites  his  terror  or  surprise, — 
All  seeming  to  his  knowing  eyes 
Familiar  as  his  u  catechiz"," 

Or  u  Webster's  Spelling-Book. " 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 

THE  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright, 

Where,  miles  away, 
Lies  stretching  to  my 'dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light, 
Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  wastes  of  sandy 
gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea  ! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free, 
With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast  for  miles 
around. 

On — on — we  tread  with  loose-flung  rein 

Our  seaward  way, 

Through  dark-green  fields  and  blossoming  grain, 
Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the  lane, 
And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flowering  locust 
spray. 

Ha  !  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 
Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 


Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow, 
While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow 
The  breath  of  a  new  life, — the  healing  of  the  seas  ! 

Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 

His  feet  hath  set 

In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds  with  cool 
spray  wet. 

Good  by  to  pain  and  care  !  I  take 

Mine  ease  to-day : 

Here  where  these  sunny  waters  break, 
And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I  shake 
All  burdens  from  the  heart,  all  weary  thoughts 
away. 

I  draw  a  freer  breath — I  seem 

Like  all  I  see — 

Waves  in  the  sun — the  white-winged  gleam 
Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam — 
And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the  south-wind 
free. 

So  when  Time's  veil  shall  fall  asunder, 

The  soul  may  know     1 
No  fearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 
Nor  sink  the  weight  of  mystery  under, 
But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the  vastness 
grow. 

And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may  seem 

No  new  revealing ; 
Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream, 
Or  pleasant  memory  of  a  dream 
The  loved  and  cherished  Past  upon  the  new  life 
stealing. 

Serene  and  mild  the  untried  light 

May  have  its  dawning ; 
And,  as  in  summer's  northern  night 
The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with  the  soul's 
new  morning. 

I  sit  alone  ;  in  foam  and  spray 

Wave  after  wave 

Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern  and  gray, 
Shoulder  the  broken  tide  away, 
Or  murmurs  hoarse  and  strong  through  mossy 
cleft  and  cave. 

What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town  ? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer  waves  shuts 
down ! 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I  yield  to  all 

The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and  wind 
And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 
I  wander  with  the  waves,  and  with  them  rise  and 
fall. 

But  look,  thou  dreamer  I — wave  and  shore 

In  shadow  lie ; 

The  night-wind  warns  me  back  once  more 
To  where,  my  native  hill-tops  o'er, 
Bends  like  an  arch  of  fire  the  glowing  sunset  sky. 

So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  farewell ! 

I  bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 
But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  musing  by  the 
Sea. 


100 


LINES.— THE  REWARD. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   ON   HEARING   OF  THE   DEATH   OF   SILAS 
WKIGHT   OF   NEW  YORK. 

As  they  who,  tossing  midst  the  storm  at  night, 

While    turning  shoreward,    where  a  beacon 
shone, 

Meet  the  walled  blackness  of  the  heaven  alone, 
So,  on  the  turbulent  waves  of  party  tossed, 
In  gloom  and  tempest,  men  have  seen  thy  light 

Quenched  in  the  darkness.     At  thy  hour  of 

noon, 

While  life  was  pleasant  to  thy  undimmed  sight,    • 
And,  day  by  day,  within  thy  spirit  grew 
A  holier  hope  than  young  Ambition  knew, 
As  through  thy  rural  quiet,  not  in  vain, 
Pierced  the  sharp  thrill  of  Freedom's  cry  of  pain, 

Man  of  the  millions,  thou  art  lost  too  soon  ! 
Portents  at  which  the  bravest  &tand  aghast, — 
The  birth-throes  of  a  Future,  strange  and  vast, 

Alarm  the  land ;  yet  thou,  so  wise  and  strong, 
Suddenly  summoned  to  the  burial  bed, 

Lapped  in  its  slumbers  deep  and  ever  long, 
Hear'st  not  the  tumult  surging  overhead. 
Who  now  shall  rally  Freedom's  scattering  host  ? 
Who  wear  the  man  tie -of  the  leader  lost? 
Who   stay  the  march  of    slavery?     He  whose 
voice 

Hath  called  thee  from  thy  task-field  shall  not 
lack 

Yet  bolder  champions,  to  beat  bravely  back 
The  wrong  which,  through  his  poor  ones,  reaches 

Him: 

Yet  firmer  hands   shall    Freedom's    torchlights 
trim, 

And  wave  them  high  across  the  abysmal  black, 
Till  bound,  dumb  millions  there  shall  see  them 
and  rejoice. 

10th  mo.,  1847. 


LINES, 

ACCOMPANYING    MANUSCRIPTS  PRESENTED  TO    A 
FRIEND. 

'  T  is  said  that  in  the  Holy  Land 
The  angels  of  the  place  have  blessed 

The  pilgrim's  bed  of  desert  sand, 
Like  Jacob's  stone  of  rest.  • 

That  down  the  hush  of  Syrian  skies 
Some  sweet-voiced  saint  at  twilight  sings 

The  song  whose  holy  symphonies 
Are  beat  by  unseen  wings  ; 

Till  starting  from  his  sandy  bed, 
The  wayworn  wanderer  looks  to  see 

The  halo  of  an  angel's  head 
Shine  through  the  tamarisk-tree. 

So  through  the  shadows  of  my  way 
Thy  smile  hath  fallen  soft  and  clear, 

So  at  the  weary  close  of  day 
Hath  seemed  thy  voice  of  cheer. 

That  pilgrim  pressing  to  his  goal 
May  pause  not  for  the  vision's  sake, 

Yet  all  fair  things  within  his  soul 
The  thought  of  it  shall  wake  : 

The  graceful  palm-tree  by  the  well, 

Seen  on  the  far  horizon's  rim  ; 
The  dark  eyes  of  the  fleet  gazelle, 

Be^rt  timidly  on  him  ; 


Each  pictured  saint,  whose  golden  hair 

Streams  simlike  through  the  convent's  glooom; 

Pale  shrines  of  martyrs  young  and  fair, 
And  loving  Mary's  tomb  ; 

And  thus  each  tint  or  shade  which  falls, 
From  sunset  cloud  or  waving  tree 

Along  my  pilgrim  path,  recalls 
The  pleasant  thought  of  thee. 

Of  one  in  sun  and  shade  the  same, 
In  weal  and  woe  my  steady  friend, 

Whatever  by  that  holy  name 
The  angels  comprehend. 

Not  blind  to  faults  and  follies,  thou 

Hast  never  failed  the  good  to  see, 
Nor  judged  by  one  unseemly  bough 

The  upward-struggling  tree. 

These  light  leaves  at  thy  feet  I  lay, — 

Poor  common  thoughts  on  common  things, 

Which  time  is  shaking,  day  by  day, 
Like  leathers  from  his  wings, — 

Chance  shootings  from  a  frail  life-tree, 
To  nurturing  care  but  little  known, 

Their  good  was  partly  learned  of  thee, 
Their  folly  is  my  own. 

That  tree  still  clasps  the  kindly  mould, 
Its  leaves  still  drink  the  twilight  dew, 

And  weaving  its  pale  green  with  gold, 
Still  shines  the  sunlight  through. 

There  still  the  morning  zephyrs  play, 
And  there  at  times  the  spring  bird  sings, 

And  mossy  trunk  and  fading  spray 
Are  flowered  with  glossy  wings. 

Yet,  even  in  genial  sun  and  rain, 
Root,  branch,  and  leaflet  fail  and  fade  ; 

The  wanderer  on  its  lonely  plain 
Erelong  shall  miss  its  shade. 

O  friend  beloved,  whose  curious  skill 

Keeps    bright    the    last  year's    leaves    and 
flowers, 

With  warm,  glad  summer  thoughts  to  fill 
The  cold,  dark,  winter  hours  ! 

Pressed  on  thy  heart,  the  leaves  I  bring 

May  well  defy  the  wintry  cold, 
Until,  in  Heaven's  eternal  spring, 

Life's  fairer  ones  unfold. 


THE  REWARD. 

WHO,  looking    backward  from    his    manhood's 

prime, 
Sees  not  the  spectre  of  his  misspent  time  ? 

And,  through  the  shade 
Of  funeral  cypress  planted  thick  behind, 
Hears  no  reproachful  whisper  on  the  wind 

From  his  loved  dead  ? 

Who  bears  no  trace  of  passion's  evil  force  ? 
Who  shuns  thy  sting,  O  terrible  Remorse  ? — 

Who  does  not  cast 

On  the  thronged  pages  of  his  memory's  book, 
At  times,  a  sad  and  half -reluctant  look, 

Regretful  of  the  past  ? 

Alas  ! — the  evil  which  we  fain  would  shun 
We  do,  and  leave  the  wished-for  good  undone  : 
Our  strength  to-day 


RAPHAEL.— LUCY  HOOPER 


101 


Is  but  to-morrow's  weakness,  prone  to  fall ; 
Poor,  blind,  unprofitable  servants  all 
Are  we  alway. 

Yet  who,  thus  looking  backward  o'er  his  years, 
Peels  not  his  eyelids  wet  with  grateful  tears, 

If  he  habh  been 

Permitted,  weak  and  sinful  as  he  was, 
To  cheer  and  aid,  in  some  ennobling  cause, 

His  fellow-men  ? 

If  he  hath  hidden  the  outcast,  or  let  in 
A  ray  of  sunshine  to  the  cell  of  sin, — 

If  he  hath  lent 

Strength  to  the  weak,  and,  in  an  hour  of  need, 
Over  the  suffering,  mindless  of  his  creed 

Or  home,  hath  bent, 

He  has  not  lived  in  vain,  and  while  he  gives 
The  praise  to  Him,  in  whom  he  moves  and  lives, 

With  thankful  heart ; 

He  gazes  backward,  and  with  hope  before, 
Knowing  that  from  his  works  he  nevermore 

Can  henceforth  part. 


RAPHAEL. 

I  SHALL  not  soon  forget  that  sight : 
The  glow  of  autumn's  westering  day, 

A  hazy  warmth,  a  dreamy  light, 
On  Raphael's  picture  lay. 

It  was  a  simple  print  I  saw, 
The  fair  face  of  a  musing  boy ; 

Yet.,  while  I  gazed,  a  sense  of  awe 
Seemed  blending  with  my  joy. 

A  simple  print : — the  graceful  flow 
Of  boyhood's  soft  and  wavy  hair, 

And  fresh  young  lip  and  cheek,  and  brow 
Unmarked  and  clear,  were  there. 

Yet  through  its  sweet  and  calm  repose 

I  saw  the  inward  spirit  shine  ; 
It  was  as  if  before  me  rose 

The  white  veil  of  a  shrine. 

As  if,  as  Gothland's  sage  has  told, 
The  hidden  life,  the  man  within, 

Dissevered  from  its  frame  and  mould, 
By  mortal  eye  were  seen. 

Was  it  the  lifting  of  that  eye, 

The  waving  of  that  pictured  hand  ? 

Loose  as  a  cloud-wreath  on  the  sky, 
I  saw  the  walls  expand. 

The  narrow  room  had  vanished, — space, 
Broad,  luminous,  remained  alone, 

Through  which  all  hues  and  shapes  of  grace 
And  beauty  looked  or  shone. 

Around  the  mighty  master  came 
•  The  marvels  which  his  pencil  wrought, 

Those  miracles  of  power  whose  fame 
Is  wide  as  human  thought. 

There  drooped  thy  more  than  mortal  face, 
O  Mother,  beautiful  and  mild  ! 

Enfolding  in  one  dear  embrace 
Thy  Saviour  and  thy  Child  ! 

The  rapt  brow  of  the  Desert  John ; 

The  awful  glory  of  that  day 
When  all  the  Father's  brightness  shone 

Through  manhood's  veil  of  clay. 


And,  mk'yfcsgfay'pTPl'tli'/fc  fcrpis/  anu  wild 
Dark  visions  of  the  days  of  old," 

How  sweetly  woman's  beauty  smiled 
Through  locks  of  brown  and  gold ! 

There  Fornarina's  fair  young  face 
Once  more  upon  her  lover  shone, 

Whose  model  of  an  angel's  grace 
He  borrowed  from  her  own. 

Slow  passed  that  vision  from  my  view, 
But  not  the  lesson  wnich  it  taught ; 

The  soft,  calm  shadows  which  it  threw 
Still  rested  on  my  thought : 

Tha  truth,  that  painter,  bard,  and  sage, 
Even  in  Earth's  cold  and  changeful  clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 

We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 
Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 

And  fill  our  Future's  atmosphere 
With  sunshine  or  w±tn  shade. 

The  tissue  of  the  Life  to  be 

We  wedve  with  colors  all  our  own, 

And  in  the  field  of  Destiny 
We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 

Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 

The  shadows  which  it  gathered  here, 

And,  painted  on  the  eternal  wall, 
The  Past  shall  reappear. 

Think  ye  the  notes  of  holy  song 
On  Milton's  tuneful  ear  have  died  ? 

Think  ye  that  Raphael's  angel  thioiig 
Has  vanished  from  his  side  V 

O  no  ! — We  live  our  life  again  ; 

Or  warmly  touched,  or  coldly  dim, 
The  pictures  of  the  Past  remain, — 

Man's  works  shall  follow  him  ! 


LUCY  HOOPER.43 

THEY  tell  me,  Lucy,  thou  art  dead,— 

That  ail  of  thee  we  loved  and  cherished 
Has  with  thy  summer  roses  perished  ; 

And  left,  as  its  young  beauty  fled. 

An  ashen  memory  in  its  stead, — 
The  twilight  of  a  parted  day 

Whose  fading  light  is  cold  and  vain 
The  heart's  faint  echo  of  a  strain 

Of  low,  sweet  music  passed  away. 
That  true  and  loving  heart, — that  gift 

Of  a  mind,  earnest,  clear,  profound, 
Bestowing,  with  a  glad  unthrift, 

Its  sunny  light  on  all  around, 
Affinities  which  only  could 
Cleave  to  the  pure,  the  true,  and  good  ; 

And  sympathies  which  found  no  rest, 

Save  with  the  loveliest  and  best. 
Of  them — of  thee — remains  there  naught 

But  sorrow  in  the  mourner's  breast ': — 
A  sha.dow  in  the  land  of  thought  V 
No  ! — Even  in.y  weak  and  trembling  faith 

Can  lift  for  thee  the  veil  which  doubt 

And  human  fear  have  drawn  about 
The  ail-awaiting  scene  of  death. 

Even  as  thou  wast  I  see  thee  still ; 
And,  save  the  absence  of  all  ill 
And  pain  and  weariness,  which  here 
Summoned  the  sigh  or  wrung  the  tear, 


102 


CHANNING. 


as  when,  twc  sammeis  baf;k 
Beside  our  childhood's  Merrimack, 
I  saw  thy  dark  eye  wander  o'er 
Stream,  sunny  upland,  rocky  shore, 
And  heard  thy  low,  soft  voice  alone 
Midst  lapse  of  waters,  and  the  tone 
Of  pine-leaves  by  the  west-wind  blown, 
There  's  not  a  charm  of  soul  or  brow, — 

Of  all  we  knew  and  loved  in  thee, — 
But  lives  in  holier  beauty  now, 

Baptized  in  immortality  ! 
Not  mine  the  sad  and  freezing  dream 

Of  souls  that,  with  their  earthly  mould, 

Cast  off  the  loves  and  joys  of  old, — 
Unbodied, — like  a  pale  moonbeam, 

As  pure,  as  passionless,  and  cold  ; 
Nor  mine  the  hope  of  Indra's  son, 

Of  slumbering  in  oblivion's  rest, 
Life's  myriads  blending  into  one, — 

In  blank  annihilation  blest ; 
Dust-atoms  of  the  infinite, — 
Sparks  scatterel  from  the  central  light, 
And  winning  back  through  mortal  pain 
Their  old  unconsciousness  again. 
No  ! — I  have  PRJENDS  in  Spirit  Land, — 
Not  shadows  in  a  shadowy  band, 

Not  others,  but  themselves  are  they. 
And  still  I  think  of  them  the  same 
As  when  the  Master's  summons  came  ; 
Their  change, — the  holy  morn-light  breaking 
Upon  the  dream- worn  sleeper,  waking, — 

A  change  from  twilight  into  day. 

They  've  laid  thee  midst  the  household  graves, 

Where  father,  brother,  sister  lie  ; 
Below  thee  sweep  the  dark  blue  waves, 

Above  thee  bends  the  summer  sky. 
Thy  own  loved  church  in  sadness  read 
Her  solemn  ritual  o'er  thy  head, 
And  blessed  and  hallowed  with  her  prayer 
The  turf  laid  lightly  o'er  thee  there. 
That  church,, whose  rites  and  liturgy, 
Sublime  and  old,  were  truth  to  thee, 
Undoubted  to  thy  bosom  taken, 
As  symbols  of  a  faith  unshaken. 
Even  I,  of  simpler  views,  could  feel 
The  beauty  of  thy  trust  and  zeal ; 
And,  owning  not  thy  creed,  could  see 
How  deep  a  truth  it  seemed  to  tiiee, 
And  how  thy  fervent  heart  had  thrown 
O'er  all,  a  coloring  of  its  own, 
And  kindled  up,  intense  and  warm, 
A  life  in  every  rite  and  form, 
As,  when  on  Chebar's  banks  of  old, 
The  Hebrew's  gorgeous  vision  rolled, 
A  spirit  tilled  the  vast  machine, — 
A  life  "  within  the  wheels  "  was  seen. 


Farewell !     A  little  time,  and  we 

Who  knew  thee  well,  and  loved  thee  here, 
One  after  one  shall  follow  thee 

As  pilgrims  through  the  gate  of  fear, 
Which  opens  on  eternity. 
Yet  shall  we  cherish  not  the  less 

All  that  is  left  our  hearts  meanwhile  ; 
The  memory  of  thy  loveliness 

Shall  round  our  weary  pathway  smile, 
Like  moonlight  when  the  sun  has  set, — 
A  sweet  and  tender  radiance  yet. 
Thoughts  of  thy  clear-eyed  sense  of  duty, 

Thy  generous  scorn  of  all  things  wrong, — 
The  truth,  the  strength,  the  graceful  beauty 

Which  blended  in  thy  song. 
All  lovely  things,  by  thee  beloved. 

Shall  whisper 'to  our  hearts  of  thee  ; 
These  green  hills,  where  thy  childhood  roved, — 

Yon  river  winding  to  the  sea, — 
The  sunset  light  of  autumn  eves 

Reflecting  on  the  deep,  still  floods, 


Cloud,  crimson  sky,  and  trembling  leaves 

Of  rainbow-tinted  woods, — 
These,  in  our  view,  shall  henceforth  take 
A  tenderer  meaning  for  thy  sake  ; 
And  all  thou  lovedst  of  earth  and  sky, 
Seem  sacred  to  thy  memory. 


CHAINING.44 

NOT  vainly  did  old  poets  tell, 

Nor  vainly  did  old  genius  paint 
God's  great  and  crowning  ihiracle, — 

The  hero  and  the  saint ! 

For  even  in  a  faithless  day 

Can  we  our  sainted  ones  discern ; 

And  feel,  while  with  them  on  the  way, 
Our  hearts  within  us  burn. 

And  thus  the  common  tongue  and  pen 
Which,  world-wide,  echo  CHANNING'S  fame, 

As  one  of  Heaven's  anointed  men, 
Have  sanctified  his  name. 

In  vain  shall  Rome  her  portals  bar, 
And  shut  from  him  her  saintly  prize, 

Whom,  in  the  world's  great  calendar, 
All  men  shall  canonize. 

By  Narragansett's  sunny  bay, 

Beneath  his  green  embowering  wood, 

To  me  it  seems  but  yesterday 
Since  at  his  side  I  stood. 

The  slopes  lay  green  with  summer  rains, 
The  western  wind  blew  fresh  and  free, 

And  glimmered  down  the  orchard  lanes 
The  white  surf  of  the  sea. 

With  us  was  one,  who,  calm  and  true, 
Life's  highest  purpose  understood, 

And,  like  his  blessed  Master,  knew 
The  joy  of  doing  good. 

Unlearned,  unknown  to  lettered  fame, 
Yet  on  the  lips  of  England's  poor 

And  toiling  millions  dwelt  his  name, 
With  blessings  evermore. 

Unknown  to  power  or  place,  yet  where 

The  sun  looks  o'er  the  Carib  sea, 
It  blended  with  the  freeman's  prayer 

And  song  of  jubilee. 

He  told  of  England's  sin  and  wrong, — 
The  ills  her  suffering  children  know, — 

The  squalor  of  the  city's  throng, — 
The  green  field's  want  and  woe. 

O'er  Channing's  face  the  tenderness 

Of  sympathetic  sorrow  stole, 
Like  a  still  shadow,  passionless, — 

The  sorrow  of  the  soul. 

But  when  the  generous  Briton  told 

How  hearts  were  answering  to  his  own, 

And  Freedom's  rising  murmur  rolled 
Up  to  the  dull-eared  throne, 

I  saw,  methought,  a  glad  surprise 

Thrill    through   that    fiail    and    pain-worn 

frame, 
And,  kindling  in  those  deep,  calm  eyes, 

A  still  and  earnest  flame. 

His  few,  brief  words  were  such  as  move 
The  human  heart, — the  Faith-sown  seeds 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  B.   STORRS. 


103 


Which  ripen  in  the  soil  of  love 
To  high  heroic  deeds. 

No  bars  of  sect  or  clime  were  felt, — 
The  Babel  strife  of  tongues  had  ceased,  - 

And  at  one  common  altar  knelt 
The  Quaker  and  the  priest. 

And  not  in  vain  :  with  strength  renewed, 
And  zeal  refreshed,  and  hope  less  dim, 

For  that  brief  meeting,  each  pursued 
The  path  allotted  him. 

How  echoes  yet  each  Western  hill 

And  vale  with  Channing's  dying  word  ! 

How  are  the  hearts  of  freemen  still 
By  that  great  warning  stirred  ! 

The  stranger  treads  his  native  soil, 
And  pleads,  with  zeal  unfelt  before 

The  honest  right  of  British  toil, 
The  claim  of  England's  poor. 

Before  him  time- wrought  barriers  fall, 
Old  fears  subside,  old  hatreds  melt, 

And,  stretching  o'er  the  sea's  blue  wall, 
The  Saxon  greets  the  Celt. 

The  yeoman  on  the  Scottish  lines, 
The  Sheffield  grinder,  worn  and  grim, 

The  delver  in  the  Cornwall  mines, 
Look  up  with  hope  to  him. 

Swart  smiters  of  the  glowing  steel, 
Dark  feeders  of  the  forge's  flame, 

Pale  watchers  at  the  loom  and  wheel, 
Repeat  his  honored  name. 

And  thus  the  influence  of  that  hour 
Of  converse  on  Rhode  Island's  strand, 

Lives  in  the  calm,  resistless  power 
Which  moves  our  father-land. 

God  blesses  still  the  generous  thought, 
And  still  the  fitting  word  He  speeds, 

And  Truth,  at  his  requiring  taught, 
He  quickens  into  deeds. 

Where  is  the  victory  of  the  grave  ? 

What  dust  upon  the  spirit  lies  '•* 
God  keeps  the  sacred  life  he  gave, — 

The  prophet  never  dies  ! 


TO   THE   MEMORY  OF 

CHARLES  B.  STORRS, 

LATE   PRESIDENT   OF   WESTERN  RESERVE 
COLLEGE. 

THOU  hast  fallen  in  thine  armor, 

Thou  martyr  of  the  Lord  ! 
With  thy  last  breath  crying, — "  Onward  ! 

And  thy  hand  upon  the  sword. 
The  haughty  heart  derideth, 

And  the  sinful  lip  reviles, 
But  the  blessing  of  the  perishing 

Around  thy  pillow  smiles  ! 

When  to  our  cup  of  trembling 

The  added  drop  is  given, 
And  the  long-suspended  thunder 

Falls  terribly  from  Heaven, — 


When  a  new  and  fearful  freedom 

Is  proffered  of  the  Lord 
To  the  slow-consuming  Famine, — 

The  Pestilence  and  Sword  ! — 

When  the  refuges  of  Falsehood 

Shall  be  swept  away  in  wrath, 
And  the  temple  shall  be  shaken, 

With  its  idol,  to  the  earth, — 
Shall  not  thy  words  of  warning 

Be  all  remembered  then  V 
And  thy  now  unheeded  message 

Burn  in  the  hearts  of  men  V 

Oppression's  hand  may  scatter 

Its  nettles  on  thy  tomb, 
And  even  Christian  bosoms 

Deny  thy  memory  room  ; 
For  lying  lips  shall  torture 

Thy  mercy  into  crime, 
And  the  slanderer  shall  flourish 

As  the  bay-tree  for  a  time. 

But  where  the  south-wind  lingers 

On  Carolina's  pines, 
Or  falls  the  careless  sunbeam 

Down  Georgia's  golden  mines, — 
Where  now  beneath  his  burthen 

The  toiling  slave  is  driven, — 
Where  now  a  tyrant's  mockery 

Is  offered  unto  Heaven, — 

Where  Mammon  hath  its  altars 

Wet  o'er  with  human  blood, 
And  pride  and  lust  debases 

The  workmanship  of  God, — 
There  shall  thy  praise  be  spoken, 

Redeemed  from  Falsehood's  ban, 
When  the  fetters  shall  be  broken, 

And  the  slave  shall  be  a  man  ! 

Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother  ! 

A  thousand  hearts  are  warm, — 
A  thousand  kindred  bosoms 

Are  baring  to  the  storm. 
What  though  red-handed  Violence 

With  secret  Fraud  combine  V 
The  wall  of  fire  is  round  us, — 

Our  Present  Help  was  thine. 

Lo, — the  waking  up  of  nations, 

From  Slavery's  fatal  sleep, — 
The  murmur  of  a  Universe, — 

Deep  calling  unto  Deep  ! 
Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother  ! 

On  every  wind  of  heaven 
The  onward  cheer  and  summons 

Of  FREEDOM'S  VOICE  is  given ! 

Glory  to  God  forever ! 

Beyond  the  despot's  will 
The  soul  of  Freedom  liveth 

Imperishable  still. 
The  words  which  thou  hast  uttered 

Are  of  that  soul  a  part, 
And  the  good  seed  thou  hast  scattered 

Is  springing  from  the  heart. 

In  the  evil  days  before  us, 

And  the  trials  yet  to  come, — 
In  the  shadow  of  the  prison, 

Or  the  cruel  martyrdom, — 
We  will  think  of  thee,  O  brother  ! 

And  thy  sainted  name  shall  be 
In  the  blessing  of  the  captive, 

And  the  anthem  of  the  free. 
1834. 


104 


LINES.— A  LAMENT.— DANIEL  WHEELER. 


LINES, 

ON   THE  DEATH   OP   S.    O.    TORREY. 

GONE  before  us,  O  our  brother, 

To  the  spirit-land  ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Who  shall  offer  youth  and  beauty 

On  the  wasting  shrine 
Of  a  stern  and  lofty  duty. 

With  a  faith  like  thine  ? 

O,  thy  genble  smile  of  greeting 

Who  again  shall  see  "i 
Who  amidst  the  solemn  meeting 

Gaze  again  on  thee  ? — 
Who,  when  peril  gathers  o'er  us, 

Wear  so  calm  a  brow  ? 
Who,  with  evil  men  before  us, 

So  serene  as  thou  V 

Early  hath  the  spoiler  found  thee, 

Brother  of  our  love  ! 
Autumn's  faded  earth  around  thee, 

And  its  storms  above  ! 
Evermore  that  turf  lie  lightly, 

And,  with  future  showers, 
O'er  thy  slumbers  fresh  and  brightly 

Blow  the  summer  flowers  ! 

In  the  locks  thy  forehead  gracing, 

Not  a  silvery  streak ; 
Nor  a  line  of  sorrow's  tracing 

On  thy  fair  young  cheek  ; 
Eyes  of  light  and  lips  of  roses, 

Such  as  Hylas  wore, — 
Over  all  that  curtain  closes. 

Which  shall  rise  no  more ! 

Will  the  vigil  Love  is  keeping 

Bound  that  grave  of  thine, 
Mournf  nlly,  like  Jazer  weeping 

Over  Sibmah's  vine,46 — 
Will  the  pleasant  memories,  swelling 

Gentle  hearts,  of  thee, 
In  the  spirit's  distant  dwelling 

All  unheeded  be  ? 

If  the  spirit  ever  gazes, 

From  its  journeyings,  back  ; 
If  the  immortal  ever  traces 

O'er  its  mortal  track ; 
Wilt  thou  not,  O  brother,  meet  us 

Sometimes  on  our  way, 
And,  in  hours  of  sadness,  greet  us 

As  a  spirit  may  ? 

Peace  be  with  thee,  O  our  brother, 

In  the  spirit-land ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Unto  Truth  and  Freedom  giving 

All  thy  early  powers, 
Be  thy  virtues  with  the  living, 

And  thy  spirit  ours ! 


A  LAMENT. 

' '  The  parted  spirit, 

Knoweth  it  not  our  sorrow  ?     Answereth  not 
Its  blessing  to  our  tears  ?  " 

THE  circle  is  broken, — one  seat  is  forsaken, — 
One    bud    from   the  tree   of   our   friendship   is 

shaken, — 

One  heart  from  among  us  no  longer  shall  thrill 
With  joy  in  our  gladness,  or  grief  in  our  ill. 


Weep  ! — lonely  and  lowly  are  slumbering  now 
The  light  of  her  glances,  the  pride  of  her  brow, 
Wreep  ! — sadly  and  long  shall  we  listen  in  vain 
To  hear  the  soft  tones  of  her  welcome  again. 

Give  cur  tears  to   the   dead!     For   humanity's 

claim 

From  its  silence  and  darkness  is  ever  the  same  ; 
The  hope  of  that  World  whose  existence  is  bliss 
May  not  stifle  the  tears  of  the  mourners  of  this. 

For,  oh  !  if  one  glance  the  freed  spirit  can  throw 
On  the  scene  of  its  troubled  probation  below, 
Than  the  pride  of  the  marble,  the  pomp  of  the 

dead, 
To  that  glance  will  be  dearer  the  tears  which  we 

shed. 

O,  who  can  forget  the  mild  light  of  her  smile, 
Over  lips   moved  with  music   and   feeling    the 

while — 
The  eye's  deep  enchantment,  dark,   dream-like, 

and  clear, 
In  the  glow  of  its  gladness,  the  shade  of  its  tear. 

And  the  charm  of  her  features,  while  over  the 

whole 
Played  the  hues  of  the  heart  and  the  sunshine  of 

soul, — 
And  the  tones  of  her  voice,  like  the  music  which 

seems 
Murmured    low  in  our  ears  by  the    Angel    of 

dreams ! 

But  holier  and  dearer  our  memories  hold 

Those  treasures  of  feeling,  more  precious  than 

gold, — 

The  love  and  the  kindness  and  pity  which  gave 
Fresh  flowers  for  the  bridal,  green  wreaths  for  the 

grave ! 

The  heart  ever  open  to  Charity's  claim, 
Unmoved  from  its  purpose  by  censure  and  blame, 
While  vainly  alike  on  her  eye  and  her  ear 
Fell  the  scorn  of  the  heartless,  the  jesting  and 
jeer. 

How  true  to  our  hearts  was  that  beautiful  sleeper ! 
With  smiles  for  the  joyful,  with  tears  for  the 

weeper ! — 

Yet,  evermore  prompt,  whether,  mournful  or  gay, 
With  warnings  in  love  to  the  passing  astray. 

For,  though  spotless  herself,  she  could  sorrow  fcr 

them 

Who  sullied  with  evil  the  spirit's  pure  gem ; 
And  a  sigh  or  a  tear  could  the  erring  reprove, 
And  the  sting  of  reproof  was  still  tempered  by 

love. 

As  a  cloud  of  the  sunset,  slow  melting  in  heaven, 
As  a  star  that  is  lost  when  the  daylight  is  given, 
As  a  glad  dream  of  slumber,  which  wakens  in 

bliss, 
She  hath  passed  to  the  world  of  the  holy  from 

this. 


DANIEL  WHEELER. 

[DANIEL  WHEELER,  a  minister  of  the  Society  of 
Friends,  and  who  had  labored  in  the  cause  of  his  Divine 
Master  in  Great  Britain,  llussia,  and  the  islands  of  the 
Pacific,  died  in  New  York  in  the  spring  of  1840,  while  on 
a  religious  visit  to  this  country.] 

O  DEARLY  loved  ! 

And  worthy  of  our  love  ? — No  more 
Thy  aged  form  shall  rise  before 


DANIEL  NEALL. 


105 


The  hushed  and  waiting  worshipper, 
In  meek  obedience  utterance  giving 
To  words  of  truth,  so  fresh  and  living, 
That,  even  to  the  inward  sense, 
They  bore  unquestioned  evidence 
Of  an  anointed  Messenger  ! 
Or,  bowing  down  thy  silver  hair 
In  reverent  awfulness  of  prayer, — 

The  world,  its  time  and  sense,  shut  out, — 
The  brightness  of  Faith's  holy  trance 
Gathered  upon  thy  countenance, 

As  if  each  lingering  cloud  of  doubt, — 
The  cold,  dark  shadows  resting  here 
In  Time's  unluminous  atmosphere, — 

Were  lifted  by  an  angel's  hand, 
And  through  them  on  thy  spiritual  eye 
[Shown  down  the  blessedness  on  high, 

The  glory  of  the  Better  Land  ! 

The  oak  has  fallen  ! 

While,  meet  for  no  good  work,  the  vine 
May  yet  its  worthless  branches  twine. 
Who  knoweth  not  that  with  thee  fell 
A  great  man  in  our  Israel  ? 
Fallen,  while  thy  loins  were  girded  still, 

Thy  feet  with  Zion's  dews  still  wet, 

And  in  thy  hand  retaining  yet 
The  pilgrim's  staff  and  scallop-shell ! 
Unharmed  and  safe,  where,  wild  and  free, 

Across  the  Neva's  cold  morass 
The  breezes  from  the  Frozen  Sea 

With  winter's  arrowy  keenness  pass ; 
Or  where  the  unwarning  tropic  gale 
Smote  to  the  waves  thy  tattered  sail, 
Or  where  the  noon -hour's  fervid  heat 
Against  Tahiti's  mountains  beat ; 

The  same  mysterious  Hand  which  gave 

Deliverance  upon  land  and  wave, 
Tempered  for  thee  the  blasts  which  blew 

Ladaga's  frozen  surface  o'er, 
And  blessed  for  thee  the  baleful  dew 

Of  evening  upon  Eimeo's  shore, 
Beneath  this  sunny  heaven  of  ours, 
Midst  our  soft  airs  and  opening  flowers 

Hath  given  thee  a  grave  ! 

His  will  be  done, 
Who  seeth  not  as  man,  whose  way 

Is  not  as  ours  !— 'T  is  well  with  thee  ! 
Nor  anxious  doubt  nor  dark  dismay 
Disquieted  thy  closing  day, 
But,  evermore,  thy  soul  could  say, 

"  My  Father  careth  still  for  me  !  " 
Called  from  thy  hearth  and  home, — from  her, — 

The  last  bud  on  thy  household  tree, 
The  last  dear  one  to  minister 

In  duty  and  in  love  to  thee, 
From  all  which  nature  holdeth  dear, 

Feeble  with  years  and  worn  with  pain, 

To  seek  our  distant  land  again, 
Bound  in  the  spirit,  yet  unknowing 

The  things  which  should  befall  thee  here, 

Whether  for  labor  or  for  death, 
In  childlike  trust  serenely  going 

To  that  last  trial  of  thy  faith  ! 

O,  far  away, 
Where  never  shines  our  Northern  star 

On  that  dark  waste  which  Balboa  saw 
I  From  Darien's  mountains  stretching  far, 
So  strange,  heaven-broad,  and  lone,  that  there, 
With  forehead  to  its  damp  wind  bare, 

He  bent  his  mailed  knee  in  awe ; 
In  many  an  isle  whose  coral  feet 
The  surges  of  that  ocean  beat, 
In  thy  palm  shadows,  Oahu, 

And  Honolulu's  silver  bay, 
Amidst  Owyhee's  hills  of  blue. 

And  taro-plains  of  Tooboonai, 
Are  gentle  hearts,  which  long  shall  be 


Sad  as  our  own  at  thought  of  thee, — 

Worn  sowers  of  Truth's  holy  seed, 

Whose  souls  in  weariness  and  need 

Were  strengthened  and  refreshed  by  thine. 

For  blessed  by  our  Father's  hand 
Was  thy  deep  love  and  tender  care. 
Thy  ministry  and  fervent  prayer, — 

Grateful  as  Eshcol's  clustered  vine 

To  Israel  in  a  weary  land  ! 

And  they  who  drew 
By  thousands  round  thee,  in  the  hour 

Of  prayerful  waiting,  hushed  and  deep, 

That  he  who  bade  the  islands  keep 
Silence  before  him,  might  renew 

Their  strength  with  his  unslumbering  power, 
They  too  shall  mourn  that  thou  art  gone, 

That  nevermore  thy  aged  lip 
Shall  soothe  the  weak,  the  erring  warn, 
Of  those  who  first,  rejoicing,  heard 
Through  thee  the  Gospel's  glorious  word, — 

Seals  of  thy  true  apostleship. 
And,  if  the  brightest  diadem, 

Whose  gems  of  glory  purely  burn 

Around  the  ransomed  ones  in  bliss, 
Be  evermore  reserved  for  them 

Who  here,  through  toil  and  sorrow,  turn 

Many  to  righteousness, — 
May  we  not  think  of  thee  as  wearing 
That  star-like  crown  of  light,  and  bearing, 
Amidst  Heaven's  white  and  blissful  band, 
The  fadeless  palm-branch  in  thy  hand ; 
And  joining  with  a  seraph's  tongue 
In  that  new  song  the  elders  sung, 
Ascribing  to  its  blessed  Giver 
Thanksgiving,  love,  and  praise  forever  ! 

Farewell ! 

And  though  the  ways  of  Zion  mourn 
When  her  strong  ones  are  called  away, 
Who  like  thyself  have  calmly  borne 
The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 
Yet  He  who  slumbereth  not  nor  sleepeth 
His  ancient  watch  around  us  keepeth  ; 
Still,  sent  from  his  creating  hand, 
New  witnesses  for  Truth  shall  stand, — 
New  instruments  to  sound  abroad 
The  Gospel  of  a  risen  Lord  ; 

To  gather  to  the  fold  once  more 
The  desolate  and  gone  astray, 
The  scattered  of  a  cloudy  day, 

And  Zion's  broken  walls  restore  ; 
And,  through  the  travail  and  the  toil 

Of  true  obedience,  minister 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  the  oil 

Of  joy  for  mourning,  unto  her  ! 
So  shall  her  holy  bounds  increase 
With  walls  of  praise  and  gates  of  peace : 
So  shall  the  Vine,  which  martyr  tears 
And  blood  sustained  in  other  years, 

With  fresher  life  be  clothed  upon  ; 
And  to  the  world  in  beauty  show 
Like  the  rose-plant  of  Jericho, 

And  glorious  as  Lebanon  ! 


DANIEL  NEALL. 


FRIEND  of  the  Slave,  and  yet  the  friend  of  all ; 
Lover  of  peace,  yet  ever  foremost  when 
The  need  of  battling  Freedom  called  for  men 
To  plant  the  banner  on  the  outer  wall ; 
Gentle  and  kindly,  ever  at  distress 
Melted  to  more  than  woman's  tenderness, 
Yet  firm  and  steadfast,  at  his  duty's  post 


106 


TO  MY  FRIEND  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  SISTER.— GONE. 


Fronting  the  violence  of  a  maddened  host, 
Like  some  gray  rock  from  which  the  waves  are 

tossed  ! 

Knowing  his  deeds  of  love,  men  questioned  not 
The  faith  of  one  whose  walk  and  word  were 

right,— 

Who  tranquilly  in  Life's  great  task-field  wrought, 
And,  side  by  side  with  evil,  scarcely  caught 

A  stain  upon  his  pilgrim  garb  of  white  : 
Prompt  to  redress  another's  wrong,  his  own 
Leaving  to  Time  and  Truth  and  Penitence  alone. 


Such  was  our  friend.     Formed  on  the  good  old 

plan, 

A  true  and  brave  and  downright  honest  man  ! — 
He  blew  no  trumpet  in  the  market-place, 
Nor  in  the  church  with  hypocritic  face 
Supplied  with  cant  the  lack  of  Christian  grace  ; 
Loathing  pretence,  he  did  with  cheerful  will 
What  others  talked  of  while  their  hands  were 

still ; 
And,    while   uLord,    Lord!"   the  pious  tyrants 

cried, 

Who,  in  the  poor,  their  Master  crucified, 
His  daily  prayer,  far  better  understood 
In  acts  than  words,  was  simply  DOING  GOOD. 
So  calm,  so  constant  was  his  rectitude, 
That  by  his  loss  alone  we  know  its  worth, 
And  feel  how  true  a  man  has  walked  with  us  on 

earth. 

Gth  6th  month,  1846. 


TO  MY  FRIEND  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS 
SISTER.46 

THINE  is  a  grief,  the  depth  of  which  another 

May  never  know  ; 
Yet,  o'er  the  waters,  O  my  stricken  brother  ! 

To  thee  I  go. 

I  lean  my  heart  unto  thee,  sadly  folding 

Thy  hand  in  mine  ; 
With  even  the  weakness  of  my  soul  upholding 

The  strength  of  thine. 

I  never  knew,  like  thee,  the  dear  departed ; 

I  stood  not  by 

When,  in  calm  trust,  the  pure  and    tranquil- 
hearted 

Lay  down  to  die. 

And  on  thy  ears  my  words  of  weak  condoling 

Must  vainly  fall : 
The  funeral  bell  which  in  thy  heart  is  tolling, 

Sounds  over  all ! 

I  will  not    mock  thee    with  the'  poor    world's 
common 

And  heartless  phrase, 
Nor  wrong  the  memory  of  a  sainted  woman 

With  idle  praise. 

With  silence  only  as  their  benediction, 

God's  angels  come 
Where,  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  affliction, 

The  soul  sits  dumb  ! 

Yet,  would  I  say  what  thy  own  heart  approveth : 

Our  Father's  will, 
Calling  to  Him  the  dear  one  whom  He  loveth, 

Is  mercy  still. 

Not  upon  thee  or  thine  the  solemn  angel 
Hath  evil  wrought : 


Her  funeral  anthem  is  a  glad  evangel, — 
The  good  die  not ! 

God  calls  our  loved  ones,  but  we  lose  not  wholly 

What  He  hath  given  ; 

They  live  on  earth,   in  thought   and  deed,   as 
truly 

As  in  his  heaven. 

And  she  is  with  thee  ;  in  thy  path  of  trial 

She  walketh  yet ; 
Still  with  the  baptism  of  thy  self-denial 

Her  locks  are  wet. 

Up,  then,  my  brother  !     Lo,  the  fields  of  harvest 

Lie  white  in  view  ! 
She  lives  and  loves  ihee,  and  the  God  thou  servest 

To  both  is  true. 

Thrust  in  thy  sickle  ! — England's  toilworn  peas 
ants 

Thy  call  abide ; 
And  she  thou  mourn'st,  a  pure  and  holy  presence, 

Shall  glean  beside ! 


GONE. 

ANOTHER  hand  is  beckoning  us, 

Another  call  is  given; 
And  glows  once  more  with  Angel-steps 

The  path  which  reaches  Heaven. 

Our  young  and  gentle  friend,  whose  smile 

Made  brighter  summer  hours, 
Amid  the  frosts  of  autumn  time 

Has  left  us  with  the  flowers. 

No  paling  of  the  cheek  of  bloom 

Forewarned  us  of  decay  ; 
No  shadow  from  the  Silent  Land 

Fell  round  our  sister's  way§ 

The  light  of  her  young  life  went  down, 

As  sinks  behind  the  hill 
The  glory  of  a  setting  star, — 

Clear,  suddenly,  and  still. 

As  pure  and  sweet,  her  fair  brow  seemed 

Eternal  as  the  sky  ; 
And  like  the  brook's  low  song,  her  voice, — 

A  sound  which  could  not  die. 

And  half  we  deemed  she  needed  not 

The  changing  of  her  sphere, 
To  give  to  Heaven  a  Shining  One, 

Who  walked  an  Angel  here. 

The  blessing  of  her  quiet  life 

Fell  on  us  like  the  dew  ; 
And  good  thoughts,  where  her  footsteps  pressed, 

Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. 

Sweet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds 

Were  in  her  very  look  ; 
We  read  her  face,  as  one  who  reads 

A  true  and  holy  book  : 

The  measure  of  a  blessed  hymn, 
To  which  our  hearts  could  move  ; 

The  breathing  of  an  inward  psalm  ; 
A  canticle  of  love. 

We  miss  her  in  the  place  of  prayer, 

And  by  the  hearth-fire's  light ; 
We  pause  beside  her  door  to  hear 

Once  more  her  sweet  u  Good-night !  " 


THE  LAKE- SIDE. —THE  HILL-TOP. 


107 


There  seems  a  shadow  on  the  day, 

Her  smile  no  longer  cheers  ; 
A  dimness  on  the  stars  of  night, 

Like  eyes  that  look  throu^n  tears. 

Alone  unto  our  Father's  will 
One  thought  hath  reconciled  ; 

That  He  whose  love  exceedjth  ours 
Hath  taken  home  his  child. 

Fold  her,  O  Father  !  in  thine  arms, 

And  let  her  henceforth  be 
A  messenger  of  love  between 

Our  human  hearts  and  thee. 

Sbill  let  her  mild  rebuking  stand 

Between  us  and  the  wrong, 
And  her  dear  memory  serve  to  make 

Our  faith  in  Goodness  strong. 

And  grant  that  she  who,  trembling,  here 

Distrusted  all  har  powers, 
May  welcome  to  hjr  holier  hoine 

The  well-beloved  of  ours. 


THE  LAKE-SIDE. 

THE  shadows  round  the  inland  sea 

Are  deepening  into  night ; 
Slow  up  the  slopes  of  Ossipee 

They  chase  the  lesseni  >g  light. 
Tired  of  the  long  day's  blinding  heat, 

I  rest  my  languid  eye, 
Lake  of  the  Hil:s  !  where,  cool  and  sweet, 

Thy  sunset  waters  lie  ! 

Along  the  sky,  in  wavy  lines, 

O'er  isle  and  reach  and  bay, 
Green-belted  with  eternal  pines, 

The  mountains  stretch  away. 
Below,  the  maple  masses  sleep 

Where  shore  with  water  blends, 
While  midway  on  the  tranquil  deep 

The  evening  light  descends. 

So  seemed  it  when  yon  hill's  red  crown, 

Of  old,  the  Indian  trod, 
And,  through  the  sunset  air,  looked  down 

Upon  the  Smile  of  God.47 
To  him  of  light  and  shade  the  laws 

No  forest  sceptic  taught ; 
Their  living  and  eternal  Cause 

His  truer  instinct  sought. 

He  saw  these  mountains  in  the  light 

Which  now  across  them  shines  ; 
This  lake,  in  summer  sunsat  bright, 

Wallei  round  with  sombering  pines. 
God  near  him  seemed  ;  from  earth  and  skies 

His  loving  voice  he  heard, 
As,  face  to  face,  in  Paradise, 

Man  stood  before  the  Lord. 

Thanks,  O  our  Father  !  that,  like  him, 

Thy  tender  love  I  see, 
In  radiant  hill  and  woodland  dim, 

And  tinted  sunset  sea. 
For  not  in  mockery  dost  thou  fill 

Our  earth  with  light  and  grace  ; 
Thou  hid'st  no  dark  and  cruel  will 

Behind  thy  smiling  face  ! 


THE   HILL-TOP. 

TFFE  burly  driver  at  my  side, 
We  slowly  climbed  the  hill, 

Whose  summit,  in  the  hot  noontide, 
Saemed  rising,  rising  still. 


At  last,  our  short  noon-shadows  hid 

The  top-stone,  bare  and  brown, 
From  whence,  like  Gizeh's  pyramid, 

The  rough  mass  slanted  down. 

I  felt  the  cool  breath  of  the  North ; 

Between  me  and  the  sun, 
O'er  deep,  still  lake,  and  ridgy  earth, 

I  saw  the  cloud-shades  run. 
Before  me,  stretched  for  glistening  miles, 

Lay  mountain-girdled  Squam  ; 
Like  green-winged  birds,  the  leafy  isles 

Upon  its  bosom  swam. 

And,  glimmering  through  the  sun-haze  warm,      / 

Far  as  the  eye  could  roam, 
Dark  billows  of  an  earthquake  storm 

Beflecked  with  clouds  like  foam, 
Their  vales  in  misty  shadow  deep, 

Their  rugged  peaks  in  shine, 
I  saw  the  mountain  ranges  sweep 

The  horizon's  northern  line. 

There  towered  Chocorua's  peak  ;  and  west, 

Moosehillock's  woods  were  seen, 
With  many  a  nameless  slide -scarred  crest 

And  pine-dark  gorge  between. 
Beyond  them,  like  a  sun-rimmed  cloud, 

The  great  Notch  mountains  shone, 
Watched  over  by  the  solemn-browed 

And  awful  face  of  stone  ! 

"A  good  look-off !  "  the  driver  spake  : 

u  About  this  time,  last  year, 
I  drove  a  party  to  the  Lake, 

And  stopped,  at  evening,  here. 
'T  was  duskish  down  below  ;  but  all 

These  hills  stood  in  the  sun, 
Till,  dipped  behind  yon  purple  wall, 

He  left  them,  one  by  one. 

"  A  lady,  who,  from  Thornton  hill, 

Had  held  her  place  outside, 
And,  as  a  pleasant  woman  will, 

Had  cheered  the  long,  dull  ride, 
Besought  me,  with  so  sweet  a  smile, 

That — though  I  hate  delays — 
I  could  not  choose  but  rest  awhile, — 

(These  women  have  such  ways  !; 

"On  yonder  mossy  ledge  she  sat, 

Her  sketch  upon  her  knees, 
A  stray  brown  lock  beneath  her  hat 

Unrolling  in  the  breeze  ; 
Her  sweet  face,  in  the  sunset  light 

Upraised  and  glorified, — 
I  never  saw  a  prettier  sight 

In  all  my  mountain  ride. 

"  As  good  as  fair  ;  it  seemed  her  joy 

To  comfort  and  to  give  ; 
My  poor,  sick  wife,  and  cripple  boy, 

Will  bless  her  while  they  live  ! " 
The  tremor  in  the  driver's  tone 

His  manhood  did  not  shame  : 
"I  dare  say,  sir,  you  may  have  known — " 

He  named  a  well-known  name. 

Then  sank  the  pyramidal  mounds, 

The  blue  lake  fled  away  ; 
For  mountain-scope  a  parlor's  bounds, 

A  lighted  hearth  for  day  ! 
From  lonely  years  and  weary  miles 

The  shadows  fell  apart ; 
Kind  voices  cheered,  sweet  human  smiles 

Shone  warm  into  my  heart. 

We  journeyed  on ;  but  earth  and  sky 

Had  power  to  charm  no  more  ; 
Still  dreamed  my  inward-turning  eye 

The  dream  of  memory  o'er. 


108 


ON  RECEIVING  AN  EAGLE'S  QUILL  FROM  LAKE  SUPERIOR. 


Ah  !  human  kindness,  human  love, — 
To  few  who  seek  denied, — 

Too  late  we  learn  to  prize  above 
The  whole  round  world  beside  ! 


ON  RECEIVING  AN  EAGLE'S  QUILL 
FROM  LAKE  SUPERIOR. 

ALL  day  the  darkness  and  the  cold 

Upon  my  heart  have  lain, 
Like  shadows  on  the  winter  sky, 

Like  frost  upon  the  pane ; 

But  now  my  torpid  fancy  wakes, 

And,  on  thy  Eagle's  plume, 
Rides  forth,  like  Sindbad  on  his  bird, 

Or  witch  upon  her  broom ! 

Below  me  roar  the  rocking  pines, 

Before  me  spreads  the  lake 
Whose  long  and  solemn-sounding  waves 

Against  the  sunset  break. 

I  hear  the  wild  Rice-Eater  thresh 

The  grain  he  has  not  sown  ; 
I  see,  with  flashing  scythe  of  fire, 

The  prairie  harvest  mown  ! 

1  hear  the  far-off  voyager's  horn ; 

I  see  the  Yankee's  trail, — 
His  foot  on  every  mountain-pass, 

On  every  stream  his  sail. 

By  forest,  lake,  and  waterfall, 

'I  see  his  pedler  show  ; 
The  mighty  mingling  with  the  mean, 

The  lofty  with  the  low. 

He's  whittling  by  St.  Mary's  Falls, 

Upon  his  loaded  wain  ; 
He 's  measuring  o'er  the  Pictured  Rocks, 

With  eager  eyes  of  gain; 

I  hear  the  mattock  in  the  mine, 

The  axe-stroke  in  the  dell, 
The  clamor  from  the  Indian  lodge, 

The  Jesuit  chapel  bell ! 

I  see  the  swarthy  trappers  come 

From  Mississippi's  springs ; 
And  war-chiefs  with  their  painted  brows, 

And  crests  of  eagle  wings. 

Behind  the  scared  squaw's  birch  canoe, 
The  steamer  smokes  and  raves  ; 

And  city  lots  are  staked  for  sale 
Above  old  Indian  graves. 

I  hear  the  tread  of  pioneers 

Of  nations  yet  to  be  ; 
The  first  low  wash  of  waves,  where  soon 

Shall  roll  a  human  sea. 

The  rudiments  of  empire  here 

Are  plastic  yet  and  warm  ; 
The  chaos  of  a  mighty  world 

Is  rounding  into  form  ! 

Each  rude  and  jostling  fragment  soon 

Its  fitting  place  shall  find, — 
The  raw  material  of  a  State, 

Its  muscle  and  its  mind  ! 


And,  westering  still,  the  star  which  leads 

The  New  World  in  its  train 
Has  tipped  with  fire  the  icy  spears 

Of  many  a  mountain  chain. 

The  snowy  cones  of  Oregon 

Are  kindling  on  its  way  ; 
And  California's  golden  sands 

Gleam  brighter  in  its  ray  ! 

Then  blessings  on  thy  eagle  quill, 

As,  wandering  far  and  wide, 
I  thank  thee  for  this  twilight  dream 

And  Fancy's  airy  ride ! 

Yet,  welcomer  than  regal  plumes, 

Which  Western  trappers  find, 
Thy  free  and  pleasant  thoughts,  chance  sown, 

Like  feathers  on  the  wind. 

Thy  symbol  be  the  mountain-bird, 

Whose  glistening  quill  I  hold  ; 
Thy  home  the  ample  air  of  hope, 

And  memory's  sunset  gold  ! 

In  thee,  let  joy  with  duty  join, 

And  strength  unite  with  love, 
The  eagle's  pinions  folding  round 

The  warm  heart  of  the  dove  ! 

So,  when  in  darkness  sleeps  the  vale 
Where  still  the  blind  bird  clings, 

The  sunshine  of  the  upper  sky 
Shall  glitter  on  thy  wings  ! 


MEMORIES. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  and  happy  girl, 

With  step  as  light  as  summer  air. 
Eyes  glad  with  smiles,  and  brow  of  pearl, 
Shadowed  by  many  a  careless  curl 

Of  unconfined  and  flowing  hair  ; 
A  seeming  child  in  everything, 

Save  thoughtful  brow  and  ripening  charms, 
As  Nature  wears  the  smile  of  Spring 

When  sinking  into  Summer's  arms. 

A  mind  rejoicing  in  the  light 

Which  melted  through  its  graceful  bower, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  dew-moist  and  bright, 
And  stainless  in  its  holy  white, 

Unfolding  like  a  morning  flower  : 
A  heart,  which,  like  a  fine-toned  lute, 

With  every  breath  of  feeling  woke, 
And,  even  when  the  tongue  was  mute, 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music  spoke. 

How  thrills  once  more  the  lengthening  chain 

Of  memory,  at  the  thought  of  thee  ! 
Old  hopes  which  long  in  dust  have  lain 
Old  dreams,  come  thronging  back  again, 

And  boyhood  lives  again  in  me  ; 
I  feel  its  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

Its  fulness  of  the  heart  is  mine, 
As  when  I  leaned  to  hear  thee  speak, 

Or  raised  my  doubtful  eye  to  thine. 

I  hear  again  thy  low  replies, 

I  feel  thy  arm  within  my  own, 
And  timidly  again  uprise 
The  fringed  lids  of  hazel  eyes, 

With  soft  brown  tresses  overblown. 
Ah  !  memories  of  sweet  summer  eves, 

Of  moonlit  wave  and  willowy  way, 
Of  stars  and  flowers,  and  dewy  leaves. 

And  smiles  and  tones  more  dear  than  they  ! 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARK. 


100 


Ere  this,  thy  quiet  eye  hath  smiled 

My  picture  of  thy  youth  to  see, 
Wnen,  half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 
Thy  very  artlessness  beguiled, 

And  folly's  self  seemed  wise  in  thee  ; 
I  too  can  smile,  when  o'er  that  hour 

The  lights  of  memory  backward  stream, 
Yet  feel  the  while  that  manhood's  power 

Is  vainer  than  my  boyhood's  dream. 

Years  have  passed  on,  and  left  their  trace, 

Of  graver  care  and  deeper  thought ; 
And  unto  me  the  calm,  cold  face 
Of  manhood,  and  to  thee  the  grace 

Of  woman's  pensive  beauty  brought. 
More  wide,  perchance,  for  blame  than  praise, 

The  school-boy's  humble  name  has  flown  ; 
Thine,  in  the  green  and  quiet  ways 

Of  unobtrusive  goodness  known. 

And  wider  yet  in  thought  and  deed 

Diverge  our  pathways,  one  in  youth  ; 
Thine  the  Genevan's  sternest  creed, 
While  answers  to  my  spirit's  need 

The  Derby  dalesman's  simple  truth. 
For  thee,  the  priestly  rite  and  prayer, 

And  holy  day,  and  solemn  psalm  ; 
Fo/  me,  the  silent  reverence  where 

My  brethren  gather,  slow  and  calm. 

Yet  hath  thy  spirit  left  on  me 

An  impress  Time  has  worn  not  out, 
And  something  of  myself  in  thee, 
A  shadow  from  the  past,  1  see, 

Lingering,  even  yet,  thy  way  about ; 
Not  wholly  can  the  heart  unlearn 

That  lesson  of  its  better  hours, 
N ot  yet  has  Time's  dull  footstep  worn 

To  common  dust  that  path  of  flowers. 

Thus,  while  at  times  before  our  eyes 

The  shadows  melt,  and  fall  apart, 
And,  smiling  through  them,  round  us  lies 
Tne  warm  light  of  our  morning  skies, — 

The  Indian  Summer  of  the  heart ! — 
In  secret  sympathies  of  mind, 

Jn  founts  of  feeling  which  retain 
Their  pure,  fresh  flow,  we  yet  may  find 

Our  early  dreams  not  wholly  vain  ! 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARK.48 

THE  day  is  closing  dark  and  cold, 

With  roaring  blast  and  sleety  showers ; 

And  through  the  dusk  the  lilacs  wear 
The  bloom  of  snow,  instead  of  flowers. 

I  turn  me  from  the  gloom  without, 

To  ponder  o'er  a  tale  of  old, 
A  legend  of  the  age  of  Faith, 

By  dreaming  monk  or  abbess  told. 

On  Tintoretto's  canvas  lives 
That  fancy  of  a  loving  heart, 

In  graceful  lines  and  shapes  of  power, 
And  hues  immortal  as  his  art. 

In  Provence  (so  the  story  runs) 

There  lived  a  lord,  to  whom,  as  slave, 

A  peasant-boy  of  tender  years 

The  chance  of  trade  or  conquest  gave. 

Forth-looking  from  the  castle  tower, 
Beyond  the  hills  with  almonds  dark, 


The  straining  eye  could  scarce  discern 
The  chapei  of  the  good  St.  Mark. 

And  there,  when  bitter  word  or  fare 

The  service  of  the  youth  repaid, 
By  stealth,  before  that  holy  shrine, 

For  grace  to  bear  his  wrong,  he  prayed. 

The  steed  stamped  at  the  castle  gate, 
The  boar -hunt  sounded  on  the  hill ; 

Why  stayed  the  Baron  from  the  chase, 
With  looks  so  stern,  and  words  so  ill  ? 

"  Go,  bind  yon  slave  !  and  let  him  learn, 
By  scath  of  fire  and  strain  of  cord, 

How  ill  they  speed  who  give  dead  saints 
The  homage  due  their  living  lord  !  " 

They  bound  him  on  the  fearful  rack, 

When,  through  the  dungeon's  vaulted  dark, 

He  saw  the  light  of  shining  robes, 
And  knew  the  face  of  good  St.  Mark. 

Then  sank  the  iron  rack  apart, 

The  cords  released  their  cruel  clasp, 

The  pincers,  with  their  teeth  of  fire, 
Fell  broken  from  the  torturer's  grasp. 

And  lo  !  before  the  Youth  and  Saint, 
Barred  door  and  wall  of  stone  gave  way ; 

And  up  from  bondage  and  the  night 
They  passed  to  freedom  and  the  day ! 

O  dreaming  monk  !  thy  tale  is  true ; — 
O  painter  !  true  thy  pencil's  art ; 

In  tones  of  hope  and  prophecy, 
Ye  whisper  to  my  listening  heart  ! 

Unheard  no  burdened  heart's  appeal 
Moans  up  to  God's  inclining  ear ; 

Unheeded  by  his  tender  eye, 
Falls  to  the  earth  no  sufferer's  tear. 

For  still  the  Lord  alone  is  God  ! 

The  pomp  and  power  of  tyrant  man 
Are  scattered  at  his  lightest  breath, 

Like  chaff  before  the  winnower's  fan. 

Not  always  shall  the  slave  uplift 
His  heavy  hands  to  Heaven  in  vain. 

God's  angel,  like  the  good  St.  Mark, 
Comes  shining  down  to  break  his  chain  ! 

O  weary  ones  !  ye  may  not  see 

Your  helpers  in  their  downward  flight ; 

Nor  hear  the  sound  of  silver  wings 

Slow  beating  through  the  hush  of  night ! 

But  not  the  less  gray  Dothan  shone, 
With  sunbright  watchers  bending  low, 

That  Fear's  dim  eye  beheld  alone 
The  spear-heads  of  the  Syrian  foe. 

There  are,  who,  like  the  Seer  of  old, 
Can  see  the  helpers  God  has  sent, 

And  how  life's  rugged  mountain-side 
Is  white  with  many  an  angel  tent ! 

They  hear  the  heralds  whom  our  Lord 
Sends  down  his  pathway  to  prepare  ; 

And  light,  from  others  hidden,  shines 
On  their  high  place  of  faith  and  prayer. 

Let  such,  for  earth's  despairing  ones, 

Hopeless,  yet  longing  to  be  free, 
Breathe  once  again  the  Prophet's  prayer  : 

"  Lord,  ope  their  eyes,  that  they  may  see  !  " 


110 


THE  WELL  OF  LOCH  MAREE.— CALEF  IN  BOSTON. 


THE  WELL  OF  LOCH  MAREE.49 

CALM  on  the  breast  of  Loch  Maree 

A  little  isle  reposes  ; 
A  shadow  woven  of  the  oak 

And  willow  o'er  it  closes. 

Within,  a  Druid's  mound  is  seen, 
Set  round  with  stony  warders  ; 

A  fountain,  gushing  through  the  turf, 
Flows  o'er  its  grassy  borders. 

And  whoso  bathes  therein  his  brow, 
With  care  or  madness  burning, 

Feels  once  again  his  healthful  thought 
And  sense  of  peace  returning. 

O  restless  heart  and  fevered  brain, 

Unquiet  and  unstable. 
That  holy  well  of  Loch  Maree 

Is  more  than  idle  fable  ! 

Life's  changes  vex,  its  discords  stun, 
Its  glaring  sunshine  blindeth, 

And  blest  is  he  who  on  his  way 
That  fount  of  healing  findeth  ! 

The  shadows  of  a  humbled  will 
And  contrite  heart  are  o'er  it ; 

Go  read  its  legend — "  TRUST  IN  GOD" — 
On  Faith's  white  stones  before  it. 


TO  MY  SISTER ; 

WITH  A  COPT  OF  "  SUPERNATURALISM  OF  NEW 
ENGLAND." 

DEAR  SISTER  ! — while  the  wise  and  sage 
Turn  coldly  from  my  playful  page, 
And  count  it  strange  that  ripened  age 

Should  stoop  to  boyhood's  folly  ; 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  judge  aright 
Of  all  which  makes  the  heart  more  light, 
Or  lends  one  star-gleam  to  the  night 

Of  clouded  Melancholy. 

Away  with  weary  cares  and  themes  ! — 
Swing  wide  the  moonlit  gate  of  dreams  ! 
Leave  free  once  more  the  land  which  teems 

With  wonders  and  romances  ! 
Where  thou,  with  clear  discerning  eyes, 
Shalt  rightly  read  the  truth  which  lies 
Beneath  the  quaintly  masking  guise 

Of  wild  and  wizard  fancies. 

Lo  !  once  again  our  feet  we  set 

On  still  green  wood-paths,  twilight  wet, 

By  lonely  brooks,  whose  waters  fret 

The  roots  of  spectral  beeches  ; 
Again  the  hearth-fire  glimmers  o'er 
Home's  whitewashed  wall  and  painted  floor, 
And  young  eyes  widening  to  the  lore 

Of  faery-folks  and  witches. 

Dear  heart ! — the  legend  is  not  vain 
Which  lights  that  holy  hearth  again, 
And  calling  back  from  care  and  pain, 

And  death's  funereal  sadness, 
Draws  round  its  old  familiar  blaze 
The  clustering  groups  of  happier  days, 
And  lends  to  sober  manhood's  gaze 

A  glimpse  of  childish  gladness. 

And,  knowing  how  my  life  hath  been 
A  weary  work  of  tongue  and  pen, 


A  long,  harsh  strife  with  strong-willed  men, 

Thou  wilt  not  chide  my  turning 
To  con,  at  times,  an  idle  rhyme, 
To  pluck  a  flower  from  childhood's  clime, 
Or  listen,  at  Life's  noonday  chime, 
For  the  sweet  bells  of  Morning  ! 


AUTUMN  THOUGHTS. 
FROM  "MARGARET  SMITH'S  JOURNAL." 

GONE  hath  the  Spring,  with  all  its  flowers. 
And  gone  the  Summer's  pomp  and  show, 

And  Autumn,  in  his  leafless  bowers, 
Is  waiting  for  the  Winter's  snow. 

I  said  to  Earth,  so  cold  and  gray, 
11  An  emblem  of  myself  thou' art ;  " 

"Not  so,"  the  Earth  "did  seem  to  say, 

"  For  Spring  shall  warm  my  frozen  heart. " 

I  soothe  my  wintry  sleep  with  dreams 

Of  warmer  sun  and  softer  rain, 
And  wait  to  hear  the  sound  of  streams 

And  songs  of  merry  birds  again. 

But  thou,  from  whom  the  Spring  hath  gone, 
For  whom  the  flowers  no  longer  blow, 

Who  standest  blighted  and  forlorn, 
Like  Autumn  waiting  for  the  snow  : 

No  hope  is  thine  of  sunnier  hours, 
Thy  Winter  shall  no  more  depart ; 

No  Spring  revive  thy  wasted  flowers, 
Nor  Summer  warm  thy  frozen  heart. 


CALEF  IN  BOSTON. 


IN  the  solemn  days  of  old, 

Two  men  met  in  Boston  town, 

One  a  tradesman  frank  and  bold, 
One  a  preacher  of  renown. 

Cried  the  last,  in  bitter  tone,  — 
"Poisoner  of  the  wells  of  truth  ! 

Satan's  hireling,  thou  has  sown 
With  his  tares  the  heart  of  youth  ! 

Spake  the  simple  tradesman  then,  — 
"  God  be  judge  '  twixt  thou  and  I  ; 

All  thou  knowest  of  truth  hath  been 
Unto  men  like  thee  a  lie. 

"Falsehoods  which  we  spurn  to-day 
Were  the  truths  of  long  ago  ; 

Let  the  dead  boughs  fall  away, 
Fresher  shall  the  living  grow. 

"  God  is  good  and  God  is  light, 
In  this  faith  I  rest  secure  ; 

Evil  can  but  serve  the  right, 
Over  all  shall  love  endure. 

"  Of  your  spectral  puppet  play 
I  have  traced  the  cunning  wires  ; 

Come  what  will,  I  needs  must  say, 
God  is  true,  and  ye  are  liars." 

When  the  thought  of  man  is  free, 
Error  fears  its  lightest  tones  ; 

So  the  priest  cried,  "  Sadducee  !  " 
And  the  people  took  up  stones. 


TO  PIUS  IX.— ELLIOTT. 


Ill 


In  the  ancient  burying-ground, 
Side  by  side  the  twain  now  lie, — 

One  with  humble  grassy  mound, 
One  with  marbles  pale  and  high. 

But  the  Lord  hath  blest  the  seed  * 
Which  that  tradesman  scattered  then, 

And  the  preacher's  spectral  creed 
Chills  no  more  the  blood  of  men. 

Let  us  trust,  to  one  is  known 

Perfect  love  which  casts  out  fear, 

While  th'3  other's  joys  atone 
For  the  wrong  he  suffered  here. 


TO  PIUS  IX.50 

THE  cannon's  brazen  lips  are  cold  ; 

No  red  shell  blazes  down  the  air  ; 
And  street  and  tower,  and  temple  old, 

Are  silent  as  despair. 

The  Lombard  stands  no  more  at  bay, — 
Rome's  fresh  young  life  has  bled  in  vain ; 

The  ravens  scattered  by  the  day 
Come  back  with  night  again. 

Now,  while  the  fratricides  of  France 
Are  treading  on  the  neck  of  Rome, 

Hider  at  Gaeta, — seize  thy  chance  ! 
Coward  and  cruel,  come  ! 

Creep  now  from  Naples'  bloody  skirt ; 

Thy  mummer's  part  was  acted  well, 
While  Rome,  with  steel  and  fire  begirt, 

Before  thy  crusade  fell ! 

Her  death-groans  answered  to  thy  prayer ; 

Thy  chant,  the  drum  and  bugle-call ; 
Thy  lights,  the  burning  villa's  glare  • 

Thy  beads,  the  shell  and  ball ! 

Let  Austria  clear  thy  way,  with  hands 
Foul  from  Ancona's  cruel  sack, 

And  Naples,  with  his  dastard  bands 
Of  murderers,  lead  thee  back  ! 

Rome's  lips  are  dumb  ;  the  orphan's  wail, 
The  mother's  shriek,  thou  may'st  not  hear 

Above  the  faithless  Frenchman's  hail, 
The  unsexed  shaveling's  cheer  ! 

Go,  bind  on  Rome  her  cast-off  weight, 
The  double  curse  of  crook  and  crown, 

Though  woman's  scorn  and  manhood's  hate 
From  wall  and  roof  flash  down  ! 

Nor  heed  those  blood-stains  on  the  wall, 
Not  Tiber's  flood  can  wash  away 

Where,  in  thy  stately  Quirinal,  ' 
Thy  mangled  victims  lay  ! 

Let  the  world  murmur  ;  let  its  cry 
Of  horror  and  disgust  be  heard  ; 

Truth  stands  alone  ;  thy  coward  lie 
Is  backed  by  lance  and  sword  ! 

The  cannon  of  St.  Angelo, 

And  chanting  priest  and  clanging  bell, 
And  beat  of  drum  and  bugle  blow, 

Shall  greet  thy  coming  well ! 


Let  lips  of  iron  and  tongues  of  slaves 
Fit  welcome  give  thee  ; — for  her  part, 

Rome,  frowning  o'er  her  new-made  graves, 
Shall  curse  thee  from  her  heart ! 

No  wreaths  of  sad  Campagna's  flowers 
Shall  childhood  in  thy  pathway  fling  ; 

No  garlands'f  rom  their  ravaged  bowers 
Shall  Term's  maidens  bring  ; 

But,  hateful  as  that  tyrant  old, 
The  mocking  witness  of  his  crime, 

In  thee  shall  loathing  eyes  behold 
The  Nero  of  our  time  ! 

Stand  where  Rome's  blood  was  freest  shed, 
Mock  Heaven  with  impious  thanks,  and  call 

Its  curses  on  the  patriot  dead, 
Its  blessings  on  the  Gaul ! 

Or  sit  upon  thy  throne  of  lies, 

A  poor,  mean  idol,  blood-besmeared, 

Whom  even  its  worshippers  despise, — 
Unhonored,  unrevered  ! 

Yet,  Scandal  of  the  World  !  from  thee 
One  needful  truth  mankind  shall  learri, — 

That  kings  and  priests  to  Liberty 
And  God  are  false  in  turn. 

Earth  wearies  of  them  ;  and  the  long 

Meek  sufferance  of  the  Heavens  doth  fail ; 

Woe  for  weak  tyrants,  when  the  strong 
Wake,  struggle,  and  prevail ! 

Not  vainly  Roman  hearts  have  bled 
To  feed  the  Crozier  and  the  Crown, 

If,  routed  thereby,  the  world  shall  tread 
The  twin-born  vampires  down  ! 


ELLIOTT.51 

HANDS  off!  thou  tithe-fat  plunderer  !  play 

No  trick  of  priestcraft  here  ! 
Back,  puny  lordling  !  darest  thou  lay 

A  hand  on  Elliott's  bier  ? 
Alive,  your  rank  and  pomp,  as  dust, 

Beneath  his  feet  he  trod  : 
He  knew  the  locust  swarm  that  cursed 

The  harvest-fields  of  God. 

Ort  these  pale  lips,  the  smothered  thought 

Which  England's  millions  feel, 
A  fierce  and  fearful  splendor  caught, 

As  from  his  forge  the  steel. 
Strong-armed  as  Thor, — a  shower  of  fire 

His  smitten  anvil  flung  ; 
God's  curse,  Earth's  wrong,  dumb  Hunger 'sire,- 

He  gave  them  all  a  tongue  ! 

Then  let  the  poor  man's  horny  hands 

Bear  up  the  mighty  dead, 
And  labor's  swart  and  stalwart  bands 

Behind  as  mourners  tread. 
Leave  cant  and  craft  their  baptized  bounds, 

Leave  rank  its  minster  floor  ; 
Give  England's  green  and  daisied  grounds 

The  poet  of  the  poor  ! 

Lay  down  upon  his  Sheaf's  green  verge 

That  brave  old  heart  of  oak, 
With  fitting  dirge  from  sounding  forge, 

And  pall  of  furnace  smoke  ! 
Where  whirls  the  stone  its  dizzy  rounds, 

And  axe  and  sledge  are  swung, 
And,  timing  to  their  stormy  sounds, 

His  stormy  lays  are  sung. 


112 


ICHABOD.— THE  CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS.— THE  MEN  OF  OLD. 


There  let  the  peasant's  step  be  heard, 

The  grinder  chant  his  rhyme  ; 
Nor  patron's  praise  nor  dainty  word 

Belits  the  man  or  time. 
No  soft  lament  nor  dreamer's  sigh 

For  him  whose  words  were  bread, — 
The  Runic  rhyme  and  spell  whereby 

The  foodless  poor  were  fed  ! 

Pile  up  thy  tombs  of  rank  and  pride, 

O  England,  as  thou  wilt ! 
With  pomp  to  nameless  worth  denied 

Emblazon  titled  guilt ! 
No  part  or  lot  in  these  we  claim  ; 

But,  o'er  the  sounding  wave, 
A  common  right  to  Elliott's  name, 

A  freehold  in  his  grave  ! 


ICHABOD  ! 

So  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore  ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forever  more  ! 

Revile  him  not, — the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall ! 

O,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn  !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven  ! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save  power  remains, — 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone  ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled  : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead  ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame  ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame  ! 


THE  CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS.52 

No  aimless  wanderers,  by  the  fiend  Unrest 

Goaded  from  shore  to  shore ; 
No  schoolmen,  turning,  in  their  classic  quest, 

The  leaves  of  empire  o'er. 
Simple  of  faith,  and  bearing  in  their  hearts 

The  love  of  man  and  God, 
Isles  of  old  song,  the  Moslem's  ancient  marts, 

And  Scythia's  steppes,  they  trod. 


Where  the  long  shadows  of  the  fir  and  pine 

In  the  night  sun  are  cast, 
And  the  deep  heart  of  many  a  Norland  mine 

Quakes  at  each  riving  blast ; 
Where,  in  barbaric  grandeur,  Moskwa  stands, 

A  baptised  Scythian  queen, 
With  Europe's  arts  and  Asia's  jewelled  hands, 

The  North  and  East  between  ! 

Where  still,  through  vales  of  Grecian  fable,  stray 

The  classic  forms  of  yore, 
And  beauty  smiles,  new  risen  from  the  spray, 

And  Dian  weeps  once  more  ; 
Where  every  tongue  in  Smyrna's  mart  resounds  ; 

And  Stamboul  from  the  sea 
Lifts  her  tall  minarets  over  burial-grounds 

Black  with  the  cypress-tree  ! 

From  Malta's  temples  to  the  gates  of  Rome, 

Following  the  track  of  Paul, 
And  where  the  Alps  gird  round  the  Switzer's 
home 

Their  vast,  eternal  wall ; 
They  paused  not  by  the  ruins  of  old  time, 

They  scanned  no  pictures  rare, 
Nor  lingered  where  the  snow-locked  mountains 
climb 

The  cold  abyss  of  air  ! 

,  But  unto  prisons,  where  men  lay  in  chains, 

To  haunts  where  Hunger  pined, 
To  kings  and  courts  forgetful  of  the  pains 

And  wants  of  human-kind, 
Scattering  sweet  words,  and  quiet  deeds  of  good, 

Along  their  way,  like  flowers, 
Or  pleading,  as  Christ's  freemen  only  could, 

With  princes  and  with  powers  ; 

Their  single  aim  the  purpose  to  fulfil 

Of  Truth,  from  day  to  day, 
Simply  obedient  to  its  guiding  will, 

They  held  their  pilgrim  way. 
Yet  dream  not,  hence,  the  beautiful  and  old 

Were  wasted  on  their  sight, 
Who  in  the  school  of  Christ  had  learned  to  hold 

All  outward  things  aright. 

Not  less  to  them  the  breath  of  vineyards  blown 

From  off  the  Cyprian  shore, 
Not  less  for  them  the  Alps  in  sunset  shone, 

That  man  they  valued  more. 
A  life  of  beauty  lends  to  all  it  sees 

The  beauty  of  its  thought ; 
And  fairest  forms  and  sweetest  harmonies 

Make  glad  its  way,  unsought. 

In  sweet  accordancy  of  praise  and  love, 

The  singing  waters  run  ; 
And  sunset  mountains  wear  in  light  above 

The  smile  of  duty  done ; 
Sure  stands  the  promise, — ever  to  the  meek 

A  heritage  is  given  ; 

Nor  lose  they  Earth  who,  single-hearted,  seek 
The  righteousness  of  Heaven  ! 


THE  MEN  OF  OLD. 

WELL  speed  thy  mission,  bold  Iconoclast ! 
Yet  all  unworthy  of  its  trust  thou  art, 
If,  with  dry  eye,  and  cold,  unloving  heart, 

Thou  tread'st  the  solemn  Pantheon  of  the  Past, 
By  the  great  Future's  dazzling  hope  made  blind 
To  all  the  beauty,  power,  and  truth  behind. 

Not  without  reverent  awe  sbouldst  thou  put  by 
The  cypress  branches  and  the  amaranth  blooms, 
Where,   with   clasped   hands   of  prayer,    upon 
their  tombs 


THE  PEACE  CONVENTION  AT  BRUSSELS. 


113 


The  effigies  of  old  confessors  lie, 
God's  witnesses  ;  the  voices  of  his  will. 
Heard  in  the  slow  march  of  the  centuries  still ! 
Such  were  the  men  at  whose  rebuking  frown, 
Dark  with  God's  wrath,  the  tyrant's  knee  went 

down ; 

Such  from  the  terrors  of  the  guilty  drew 
The  vassal's  freedom  and  the  poor  man's  due. 

St.  Anselm  (may  he  rest  forevermore 

i    In  Heaven's  sweet  peace  !)  forbade,  of  old,  the 

sale 

Of  men  as  slaves,  and  from  the  sacred  pale 
Hurled  the  Northumbrian  buyers  of  the  poor. 
To  ransom  souls  from  bonds  and  evil  fate 
St.  Ambrose  melted  down  the  sacred  plate, — 
Image  of  saint,  the  chalice,  and  the  pix, 
Crosses  of  gold,  and  silver  candlesticks. 

UMAN    IS    WORTH    MORE    THA.N    TEMPLES !"    he 

replied 

To  such  as  came  his  holy  work  to  chide. 
And  brave  Cesarius,  stripping  altars  bare, 

And  coining  from  the  Abbey's  golden  hoard 
The  captive's  freedom,  answered  to  the  prayer 

Or  threat  of  those  whose  fierce  zeal  for  the  Lord 
Stifled  their  love  of  man,—"  An  earthen  dish 

The  last  sad  supper  of  the  Master  bore  : 
Most  miserable  sinners  !  do  ye  wish 

More  than  your  Lord,   and  grudge  his  dying 

poor 
What  your  own  pride  and  not  his  need  requires  ? 

Souls,   than    these    shining    gauds,   he  values 

more; 

Mercy,  not  sacrifice,  his  heart  desires ! " 
O  faithful  worthies  !  resting  far  behind 
In  your  dark  ages,  since  ye  fell  asleep, 
Much  has  been  done  for  truth  and  human-kind, — 
Shadows  are  scattered  wherein  ye  groped  blind ; 
Man  claims  his  birthright,  freer  pulses  leap 
Through  peoples  driven  in  your  day  like  sheep  ; 
Yet,  like  your  own,  our  age's  sphere  of  light, 
Though  widening  still,  is  walled  around  by  night ; 
With  slow,  reluctant  eye,  the  Church  has  read, 
Sceptic  at  heart,  the  lessons  of  its  Head  ; 
Counting,  too  oft,  its  living  members  less 
Than  the  wall's  garnish  and  the  pulpit's  dress ; 
World-moving  zeal,  with  power  to  bless  and  feed 
Life's  fainting  pilgrims,  to  their  utter  need, 
Instead  of  bread,  holds  out  the  stone  of  creed ; 
Sect  builds  and  worships  where  its  wealth  and 

pride 

And  vanity  stand  shrined  and  deified, 
Careless  that  in  the  shadow  of  its  walls 
God's  living  temple  into  ruin  falls. 
We  need,  methinks,  the  prophet-hero  still, 
Saints  true  of  life,  and  martyrs  strong  of  will, 
To  tread  the  land,  even  now,  as  Xavier  trod 

The  streets  of  Goa,  barefoot,  with  his  bell, 
Proclaiming  freedom  in  the  name  of  God, 

And  startling  tyrants  with  the  fear  of  hell ! 

Soft  words,  smooth  prophecies,  are  doubtless 

well; 

But  to  rebuke  the  age's  popular  crime, 
We  need  the  souls  of  fire,  the  hearts  of  that  old 
time  ! 


THE    PEACE    CONVENTION    AT    BRUS 
SELS. 

STILL  in  thy  streets,  O  Paris  !  doth  the  stain 
Of  blood  defy  the  cleansing  autumn  rain  ; 
Still  breaks  the  smoke  Messina's  ruins  through, 
And  Naples  mourns  that  new  Bartholomew, 
When  squalid  beggary,  for  a  dole  of  bread, 
At  a  crowned  murderer's  beck  of  license,  fed 
The  yawning  trenches  with  her  noble  dead ; 
Still,  doomed  Vienna,  through  thy  stately  halls 

8 


The  shell  goes  crashing  and  the  red  shot  falls, 
And,  leagued  to  crush  thee,    on   the    Danube's 

side, 

The  bearded  Croat  and  Bosniak  spearman  ride ; 
Still  in  that  vale  where  Himalaya's  snow 
Melts  round  the  cornfields  and  the  vines  below, 
The  Sikh's  hot  cannon,  answering  ball  for  ball, 
Flames   in   the   breach  of   Moultan's    shattered 

wall; 

On  Chenab's  side  the  vulture  seeks  the  slain, 
And  Sutlej  paints  with  blood  its  banks  again. 
"What  folly,  then,"  the  faithless  critic  cries, 
With  sneering  lip,  and  wise  world-knowing  eyes, 
"While  fort  to  fort,  and  post  to  post,  repeat 
The  ceaseless  challenge  of  the  war-drum's  beat, 
And  round  the  green  earth,  to  the  church-bell's 

chime, 

The  morning  drum-roll  of  the  camp  keeps  time, 
To  dream  of  peace  amidst  a  world  in  arms, 
Of  swords  to  ploughshares  changed  by  Scriptural 

charms, 

Of  nations,  drunken  with  the  wine  of  blood, 
Staggering  to  take  the  Pledge  of  Brotherhood, 
Like  tipplers  answering  Father  Mathew's  call, — 
The  sullen  Spaniard,  and  the  mad-cap  Gaul, 
The  bull-dog  Briton,  yielding  but  with  life, 
The  Yankee  swaggering  with  his  bowie-knife, 
The    Russ,   from    banquets    with    the    vulture 

shared, 

The  blood  still  dripping  from  his  amber  beard, 
Quitting  their  mad  Berserker  dance  to  hear 
The  dull,  meek  droning  of  a  drab-coat  seer ; 
Leaving  the  sport  of  Presidents  and  Kings, 
Where  men  for  dice  each  titled  gambler  flings, 
To  meet  alternate  on  the  Seine  and  Thames, 
For  tea  and  gossip,  like  old  country  dames  ! 
No  !  let  the  cravens  plead  the  weakling's  cant, 
Let  Cobden  cipher,  and  let  Vincent  rant, 
Let  Sturge  preach  peace  to  democratic  throngs, 
And  Burritt,  stammering  through  his  hundred 

tongues, 

Repeat,  in  all,  his  ghostly  lessons  o'er, 
Timed  to  the  pauses  of  the  battery's  roar; 
Check  Ban  or  Kaiser  with  the  barricade 
Of  "  Olive-leaves"  and  Resolutions  made; 
Spike    guns  with   pointed   Scripture-texts,   and 

hope 

To  capsize  navies  with  a  windy  trope  ; 
Still  shall  the  glory  and  the  pomp  of  War 
Along  their  train  the  shouting  millions  draw  ; 
Still  dusty  Labor  to  the  passing  Brave 
His  cap  shall  doff,  and  Beauty's  kerchief  wave  ; 
Still  shall  the  bard  to  Valor  tune  his  song, 
Still  Hero-worship  kneel  before  the  Strong ; 
Rosy  and  sleek,  the  sable-gowned  divine, 
O'er  his  third  bottle  of  suggestive  wine, 
To  plumed  and  sworded  auditors,  shall  prove 
Their  trade  accordant  with  the  Law  of  Love ; 
And  Church  for  State,  and  State  for  Church, 

shall  fight, 

And  both  agree,  that  Might  alone  is  Right !  " 
Despite  of  sneers  like  these,  O  faithful  few, 
1  Who  dare  to  hold  God's  word  and  witness  true, 
Whose  clear-eyed  faith  transcends  our  evil  time, 
And  o'er  the  present  wilderness  of  crime 
Sees  the  calm  future,  with  its  robes  of  green, 
Its  fleece-flecked  mountains,  and  soft  streams  be 
tween, — 

Still  keep  the  path  which  duty  bids  ye  tread, 
Though  worldly  wisdom  shake  the  cautious  head ; 
No  truth  from  Heaven  descends  upon  our  sphere, 
Without  the  greeting  of  the  sceptic's  sneer  ; 
Denied  and  mocked  at,  till  its  blessings  fall, 
Common  as  dew  and  sunshine,  over  all. 

Then,  o'er  Earth's  war-field,  till  the  strife  shall 

cease, 

Like  Morven's  harpers,  sing  your  song  of  peace  ; 
As  in  old  fable  rang  the  Thracian's  lyre, 
Midst  howl  of  fiends  and  roar  of  penal  fire, 


114 


THE  WISH  OF  TO-DAY.— SEED-TIME  AND  HARVEST. 


Till  the  fierce  din  to  pleasing  murmurs  fell, 
And  love  subdued  the  maddened  heart  of  hell. 
Lend,  once  again,  that  holy  song  a  tongue, 
Which  the  glad  angels  of  the  Advent  sung, 
Their  cradle-anthem  for  the  Saviour's  birth, 
Glory  to  God,  and  peace  unto  the  earth  ! 
Through  the  mad  discord   send    that    calming 

word 

Which  wind  and  wave  on  wild  Genesareth  heard, 
Lift  in  Christ's  name  his  Cross  against  the  Sword  ! 
Not  vain  the  vision  which  the  prophets  saw, 
Skirting  with  green  the  fiery  waste  of  war, 
Through  the  hot  sand-gleam,  looming  soft  and 

calm 

On  the  sky's  rim,  the  fountain-shading  palm. 
Still  lives  for  Earth,  which  fiends  so  long  have 

trod. 

The  great  hope  resting  on  the  truth  of  God, — 
Evil  shall  cease  and  Violence  pass  away, 
And  the  tired  world  breathe  free  through  a  long 

Sabbath  day. 
llh  mo.,  1848. 


THE  WISH  OF  TO-DAY. 

I  A  SK  not  now  for  gold  to  gild 
With  mocking  shine  a  weary  frame ; 

The  yearning  of  the  mind  is  stilled, — 
I  ask  not  now  for  Fame. 

A  rose-cloud,  dimly  seen  above, 

Melting  in  heaven's  blue  depths  away, 

O,  sweet,  fond  dream  of  human  Love  ! 
For  thee  I  may  not  pray. 

But,  bowed  in  lowliness  of  mind, 

I  make  my  humble  wishes  known, — 
I  only  ask  a  will  resigned, 

0  Father,  to  thine  own  ! 

To-day,  beneath  thy  chastening  eye 

1  crave  alone  for  peace  and  rest, 
Submissive  in  thy  hand  to  lie, 

And  feel  that  it  is  best. 

A  marvel  seems  the  Universe, 
A  miracle  our  Life  and  Death ; 

A  mystery  which  I  cannot  pierce, 
Around,  above,  beneath. 

In  vain  I  task  my  aching  brain, 
In  vain  the  sage's  thought  I  soan, 

I  only  feel  how  weak  and  vain, 
How  poor  and  blind,  is  man. 

And  now  my  spirit  sighs  for  home, 
And  longs  for  light  whereby  to  see, 

And,  like  a  weary  child,  would  come, 
O  Father,  unto  thee  ! 

Though  oft,  like  letters  traced  on  sand, 
My  weak  resolves  have  passed  away, 

In  mercy  lend  thy  helping  hand 
Unto  my  prayer  to-day  ! 


Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone ! 

From  Autumn  frost  to  April  rain, 
Too  long  her  winter  woods  complain  ; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 

Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And  wintry  hills,  the  school-house  stands, 
And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies, 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

The  riches  of  the  Commonwealth 

Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of  health  ; 

And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 

The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The  stubborn  strength  of  Pilgrim  Rock  ; 
And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And  clearer  light,  the  Good  Old  Cause  ! 

Nor  heeds  the  sceptic's  puny  hands, 

While  near  her  school  the  church-spire  stands ; 

Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 

While  near  her  church -spire  stands  the  school. 


OUR  STATE. 

THE  South-land  boasts  its  teeming  cane, 
The  prairied  West  its  heavy  grain, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
.  On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold  ! 

Rough,  bleak,  and  hard,  our  little  State 
Is  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait ; 


ALL'S  WELL. 

THE  clouds,  which  rise  with  thunder,  slake 

Our  thirsty  souls  with  rain  ; 
The  blow  most  dreaded  falls  to  break 

From  off  our  limbs  a  chain  ; 
And  wrongs  of  man  to  man  but  make 

The  love  of  God  more  plain. 
As  through  the  shadowy  lens  of  even 
The  eye  looks  farthest  into  heaven 
On  gleams  of  star  and  depths  of  blue 
The  glaring  sunshine  never  knew  ! 


SEED-TIME  AND  HARVEST. 

As  o'er  his  furrowed  fields  which  lie 
Beneath  a  coldly-dropping  sky, 
Yet  chill  with  winter's  melted  snow, 
The  husbandman  goes  forth  to  sow. 

Thus,  Freedom,  on  the  bitter  blast 
The  ventures  of  thy  seed  we  cast, 
And  trust  to  warmer  sun  and  rain 
To  swell  the  germs  and  fill  the  grain. 

Who  calls  thy  glorious  service  hard  V 
Who  deems  it  not  its  own  reward  ? 
Who,  for  its  trials,  counts  it  less 
A  cause  of  praise  and  thankfulness  ? 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 
The  sickle  in  the  ripened  field  ; 
Nor  ours  to  hear,  on  summer  eves, 
The  reaper's  song  among  the  sheaves. 

Yet  where  our  duty's  task  is  wrought 
In  unison  with  God's  great  thought, 
The  near  and  future  blend  in  one, 
And  whatsoe'er  is  willed,  is  done  ! 

And  ours  the  grateful  service  whence 
Comes,  day  by  day,  the  recompense  ; 
The  hope, 'the  trust,  the  purpose  stayed, 
The  fountain  and  the  noonday  shade. 


TO  A.  K— THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


115 


And  were  this  life  the  utmost  span, 
The  only  end  and  aim  of  man, 
Better  the  toil  of  fields  like  these 
Than  waking  dream  and  slothful  ease. 

But  life,  though  falling  like  our  grain, 
Like  that  revives  and  springs  again  ; 
And,  early  called,  how  blest  are  they 
Who  wait  in  heaven  their  harvest-day  ! 


TO  A.  K. 

ON  RECEIVING  A  BASKET   OF   SEA-MOSSES. 

THANKS  for  thy  gift 

Of  ocean  flowers, 
Born  where  the  golden  drift 
Of  the  slant  sunshine  falls 
Down  the  green,  tremulous  walls 
Of  water,  to  the  cool  still  coral  bowers, 
Where,  under  rainbows  of  perpetual  showers, 
God's  gardens  of  the  deep 
His  patient  angels  keep  ; 
Gladdening  the  dim,  strange  solitude 
With  fairest  forms  and  hues,  and  thus 
Forever  teaching  us 

The  lesson  which  the  many-colored  skies, 
The  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  painted  butterflies, 
The  deer's  branched  antlers,  the  gay  bird  that 

flings 

The  tropic  sunshine  from  its  golden  wings, 
The  brightness  of  the  human  countenance, 
Its  play  of  smiles,  the  magic  of  a  glance, 
Forevermore  repeat, 
In  varied  tones  and  sweet, 
That  beauty,  in  and  of  itself,  is  good. 

O  kind  and  generous  friend,  o'er  whom 

The  sunset  hues  of  Time  are  cast, 

Painting,  upon  the  overpast 

And  scattered  clouds  of  noonday  sorrow 

The  promise  of  a  fairer  morrow, 
An  earnest  of  the  better  life  to  come  ; 

The  binding  of  the  spirit  broken, 

The  warning  to  the  erring  spoken, 
The  comfort  of  the  sad, 

The  eye  to  see,  the  hand  to  cull 


Of  common  things  the  beautiful, 

The  absent  heart  made  glad 
By  simple  gift  or  graceful  token 
Of  love  it  needs  as  daily  food, 
All  own  one  Source,  and  all  are  good  ! 
Hence,  tracking  sunny  cove  and  reach, 
Where  spent  waves  glimmer  up  the  beach, 
And  toss  their  gifts  of  weed  and  shell 
From  foamy  curve  and  combing  swell, 
No  unbefitting  task  was  thine 

To  weave  these  flowers  so  soft  and  fair 
In  unison  with  His  design 

Who  loveth  beauty  everywhere  ; 
And  makes  in  every  zone  and  clime, 

In  ocean  and  in  upper  air, 
u  All  things  beautiful  in  their  time." 

For  not  alone  in  tones  of  awe  and  power 

He  speaks  to  man  ; 

The  cloudy  horror  of  the  thunder-shower 
His  rainbows  span ; 
And  where  the  caravan 
Winds  o'er  the  desert,  leaving,  as  in  air 
The  crane-flock  leaves,  no  trace  of  passage  there, 

He  gives  the  weary  eye 
The  palm-leaf  shadow  for  the  hot  noon  hours, 

And  on  its  branches  dry 
Calls  out  the  acacia's  flowers  ; 
And  where  the  dark  shaft  pierces  down 

Beneath  the  mountain  roots, 
Seen  by  the  miner's  lamp  alone, 
The  star-like  crystal  shoots  ; 
So,  where,  the  winds  and  waves  below, 
The  coral-branched  gardens  grow, 
His  climbing  weeds  and  mosses  show, 
Like  foliage,  on  each  stony  bough, 
Of  varied  hues  more  strangely  gay 
Than  forest  leaves  in  autumn's  day  ; — 
Thus  evermore, 
On  sky,  and  wave,  and  shore, 
An  all-pervading  beauty  seems  to  say  : 
God's  love  and  power  are  one  ;  and  they, 
Who,  like  the  thunder  of  a  sultry  day, 

Smite  to  restore, 

And  they,  who,  like  the  gentle  wind,  uplift 
The  petals  of  the  dew-wet  flowers,  and  drift 

Their  perfume  on  the  air, 

Alike  may  serve  Him,  each,  with  their  own  gift, 
Making  their  lives  a  prayer  ! 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS, 

AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

1852. 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 

4 1 1  DO  believe,  and  yet,  in  grief, 
I  pray  for  help  to  unbelief  ; 
For  needful  strength  aside  to  lay 
The  daily  cumberings  of  my  way. 

"I  'm  sick  at  heart  of  craft  and  cant, 
Sick  of  the  crazed  enthusiast's  rant, 
Profession's  smooth  hypocrisies, 
And  creeds  of  iron,  and  lives  of  ease. 

"I  ponder  o'er  the  sacred  word, 

I  read  the  record  of  our  Lord  ; 

And,  weak  and  troubled,  envy  them' 

Who  touched  his  seamless  garment's  hem ; — 


"  Who  saw  the  tears  of  love  he  wept 
Above  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept ; 
And  heard,  amidst  the  shadows  dim 
Of  Olivet,  his  evening  hymn. 

"  How  blessed  the  swineherd's  low  estate, 
The  beggar  crouching  at  the  gate, 
The  leper  loathly  and  abhorred. 
Whose  eyes  of  flesh  beheld  the  Lord  ! 

"  O  sacred  soil  his  sandals  pressed ! 
Sweet  fountains  of  his  noonday  rest ! 
O  light  and  air  of  Palestine, 
Impregnate  with  his  life  divine  ! 

"O,  bear  me  thither  !     Let  me  look 
On  Siloa's  pool,  and  Kedron's  brook, — 


116 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


Kneel  at  Gethsemane,  and  by 
Gennesaret  walk,  before  I  die  ! 

"Methinks  this  cold  and  northern  night 
Would  melt  before  that  Orient  light ; 
And,  wet  by  Hermon's  dew  and  rain, 
My  childhood's  faith  revive  again  !  " 

So  spake  my  friend,  one  autumn  day, 
Where  the  still  river  slid  away 
Beneath  us,  and  above  the  brown 
Red  curtains  of  the  woods  shut  down. 


Then  said  I, — for  I  could  not  brook 
The  mute  appealing  of  his  look, — 
u  I,  too,  am  weak,  and  faith  is  small 
And  blindness  happeneth  unto  all. 


u  Yet,  sometimes  glimpses  on  my  sight, 
Through  present  wrong,  the  eternal  right ; 
And,  step  by  step,  since  time  began, 
I  see  the  steady  gain  of  man  • 

"  That  all  of  good  the  past  hath  had 
Remains  to  make  our  own  time  glad, — 
Our  common  daily  life  divine 
And  every  land  a  Palestine. 

u  Thou  weariest  of  thy  present  state  ; 
What  gain  to  thee  time's  holiest  date  ? 
The  doubter  now  perchance  had  been 
As  High  Priest  or  as  Pilate  then  ! 


"What  thought  Chorazin's  scribes? 
In  Him  had  Nain  and  Nazareth  ? 
Of  the  few  followers  whom  He  led 
One  sold  him, — all  forsook  and  fled. 


What  faith 


"  O  friend  !  we  need  nor  rock  nor  sand, 
Nor  storied  stream  of  Morning-Land ; 
The  heavens  are  glassed  in  Merrimack, — 
What  more  could  Jordan  render  back  "i 

u  We  lack  but  open  eye  and  ear 
To  find  the  Orient's  marvels  here  ; — 
The  still  small  voice  in  autumn's  hush, 
Yon  maple  wood  the  burning  bush. 

"For  still  the  new  transcends  the  old, 
In  signs  and  tokens  manifold  ; — 
Slaves  rise  up  men  ;  the  olive  waves, 
With  roots  deep  set  in  battle  graves  ! 

u  Through  the  harsh  noises  of  our  day 
A  low,  sweet  prelude  finds  its  way  ; 
Through  clouds  of  doubt,  and  creeds  of  fear, 
A  light  is  breaking,  calm  and  clear. 

u  That  song  of  Love,  now  low  and  far, 
Erelong  shall  swell  from  star  to  star  ! 
That  light,  the  breaking  day,  which  tips 
The  golden-spired  Apocalypse  !  " 

Then,  when  my  good  friend  shook  his  head, 

And,  sighing,  sadly  smiled,  I  said : 

u  Thou  mind'st  me  of  a  story  told 

In  rare  Bernardin's  leaves  of  gold."  5S 

And  while  the  slanted  sunbeams  wove 
The  shadows  of  the  frost-stained  grove, 
And,  picturing  all,  the  river  ran 
O'er  cloud  and  wood,  I  thus  began : 


In  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  wood 
The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits  stood  ; 
And  thither,  at  the  close  of  day, 
Came  two  old  pilgrims,  worn  and  gray. 


One,  whose  impetuous  youth  defied 
The  storms  of  Baikal's  wintry  side, 
And  mused  and  dreamed  where  tropic  day 
Flamed  o'er  his  lost  Virginia's  bay. 

His  simple  tale  of  love  and  woe 
All  hearts  had  melted,  high  or  low  ;  — 
A  blissful  pain,  a  sweet  distress, 
Immortal  in  its  tenderness. 

Yet,  while  above  his  charmed  page 
Beat  quick  the  young  heart  of  his  age, 
He  walked  amidst  the  crowd  unknown, 
A  sorrowing  old  man,  strange  and  lone. 

A  homeless,  troubled  age, — the  gray 
Pale  setting  of  a  weary  day  ; 
Too  dull  his  ear  for  voice  of  praise, 
Too  sadly  worn  his  brow  for  bays. 

Pride,  lust  of  power  and  glory,  slept ; 
Yet  still  his  heart  its  young  dream  kept, 
And,  wandering  like  the  deluge-dove, 
Still  sought  the  resting-place  of  love. 

And,  mateless,  childless,  envied  more 
The  peasant's  welcome  from  his  door 
By  smiling  eyes  at  eventide, 
Than  kingly  gifts  or  lettered  pride. 

Until,  in  place  of  wife  and  child, 
All-pitying  Nature  on  him  smiled, 
And  gave  to  him  the  golden  keys 
To  all  her  inmost  sanctities. 

Mild  Druid  of  her  wood-paths  dim  ! 
She  laid  her  great  heart  bare  to  him, 
Its  loves  and  sweet  accords  ; — he  saw 
The  beauty  of  her  perfect  law. 

The  language  of  her  signs  he  knew, 
What  notes  her  cloudy  clarion  blew  ; 
The  rhythm  of  autumn's  forest  dyes, 
The  hymn  of  sunset's  painted  skies. 

And  thus  he  seemed  to  hear  the  song 
Which  swept,  of  old,  the  stars  along  ; 
And  to  his  eyes  the  earth  once  more 
Its  fresh  and  primal  beauty  wore. 

Who  sought  with  him,  from  summer  air, 
And  field  and  wood,  a  balm  for  care  ; 
And  bathed  in  light  of  sunset  skies 
His  tortured  nerves  and  weary  eyes  ? 

His  fame  on  all  the  winds  had  flown  ; 
His  words  had  shaken  crypt  and  throne  ; 
Like  fire,  on  camp  and  court  and  cell 
They  dropped,  and  kindled  as  they  fell. 

Beneath  the  pomps  of  state,  below 
The  mitred  juggler's  masque  and  show, 
A  prophecy — a  vague  hope — ran 
His  burning  though't  from  man  to  man 

For  peace  or  rest  too  well  he  saw 
The  fraud  of  priests,  the  wrong  of  law, 
And  felt  how  hard,  between  the  two, 
Their  breath  of  pain  the  millions  drew. 

A  prophet-utterance,  strong  and  wild, 
The  weakness  of  an  unweaned  child, 
A  sun-bright  hope  for  human-kind, 
And  self -despair,  in  him  combined. 

He  loathed  the  false,  yet  lived  not  true 
To  half  the  glorious  truths  he  knew ; 
The  doubt,  the  discord,  and  the  sin, 
He  mourned  without,  he  felt  within. 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


117 


Untrod  by  him  the  path  he  showed, 
Sweet  pictures  on  his  easel  glowed 
Of  simple  faith,  and  loves  of  home, 
And  virtue's  golden  days  to  come. 

But  weakness,  shame,  and  folly  made 
The  foil  to  all  his  pen  portrayed ; 
Still,  where  his  dreamy  splendors  shone, 
The  shadow  of  himself  was  thrown. 

Lord,  what  is  man,  whose  thought,  at  times, 
Up  to  thy  sevenfold  brightness  climbs, 
While  still  his  grosser  instinct  clings 
To  earth,  like  other  creeping  things  ! 

So  rich  in  words,  in  acts  so  mean  ; 

So  high,  so  low  ;  chance-swung  between 

The  foulness  of  the  penal  pit 

And  Truth's  clear  sky,  millennium- lit ! 

Vain  pride  of  star-lent  genius  ! — vain 
Quick  fancy  and  creative  brain, 
Unblest  by  prayerful  sacrifice, 
Absurdly  great,  or  weakly  wise  ! 

Midst  yearnings  for  a  truer  life, 
Without  were  fears,  within  was  strife  ; 
And  still  his  wayward  act  denied 
The  perfect  good  for  which  he  sighed. 

The  love  he  sent  forth  void  returned  ; 

The  fame  that  crowned  him  scorched  and  burned, 

Burning,  yet  cold  and  drear  and  lone, — 

A  fire-mount  in  a  frozen  zone  ! 

Like  that  the  gray-haired  sea-king  passed,  54 
Seen  southward  from  his  sleety  mast, 
About  whose  brows  of  changeless  frost 
A  wreath  of  flame  the  wild  winds  tossed. 

Far  round  the  mournful  beauty  played 
Of  lambent  light  and  purple  shade, 
Lost  on  the  fixed  and  dumb  despair 
Of  frozen  earth  and  sea  and  air ! 

A  man  apart,  unknown,  unloved 
By  those  whose  wrongs  his  soul  had  moved, 
He  bore  the  ban  of  Church  and  State, 
The  good  man's  fear,  the  bigot's  hate  ! 

Forth  from  the  city's  noise  and  throng, 
Its  pomp  and  shame,  its  sin  and  wrong, 
The  twain  that  summer  day  had  strayed 
To  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  shade. 

To  them  the  green  fields  and  the  wood 
Lent  something  of  their  quietude, 
And  golden-tinted  sunset  seemed 
Prophetical  of  all  they  dreamed. 

The  hermits  from  their  simple  cares 
The  bell  was  calling  home  to  prayers, 
And,  listening  to  its  sound,  the  twain 
Seemed  lapped  in  childhood's  trust  again. 

Wide  open  stood  the  chapel  door ; 

A  sweet  old  music,  swelling  o'er 

Low  prayerful  murmurs,  issued  thence, — 

The  Litanies  of  Providence  ! 

Then  Rousseau  spake  :  ' '  Where  two  or  three 
In  His  name  meet,  He  there  will  be !  " 
And  then,  in  silence,  on  their  knees 
They  sank  beneath  the  chestnut-trees. 

As  to  the  blind  returning  light, 
As  daybreak  to  the  Arctic  night, 
Old  faith  revived :  the  doubts  of  years 
Dissolved  in  reverential  tears. 


That  gush  of  feeling  overpast, 
"Ah  me  !  "  Bernardin  sighed  at  last, 
u  I  would  thy  bitterest  foes  could  see 
Thy  heart  as  it  is  seen  of  me  ! 

"No  church  of  God  hast  thou  denied; 
Thou  hast  but  spurned  in  scorn  aside 
A  base  and  hollow  counterfeit, 
Profaning  the  pure  name  of  it ! 

"With  dry  dead  moss  and  marish  weeds 
His  fire  the  western  herdsman  feeds, 
And  greener  from  the  ashen  plain 
The  sweet  spring  grasses  rise  again. 

"  Nor  thunder-peal  nor  mighty  wind 
Disturb  the«olid  sky  behind; 
And  through  the  cloud  the  red  bolt  rends 
The  calm,  still  smile  of  Heaven  descends  ! 

"Thus  through  the  world,  like  bolt  and  blast, 
And  scourging  fire,  thy  words  have  passed. 
Clouds  break, — the  steadfast  heavens  remain ; 
Weeds  burn,— the  ashes  feed  the  grain ! 

' '  But  whoso  strives  with  wrong  may  find 
Its  touch  pollute,  its  darkness  blind ; 
And  learn,  as  latent  fraud  is  shown 
In  others'  faith,  to  doubt  his  own. 

"  With  dream  and  falsehood,  simple  trust 
And  pious  hope  we  tread  in  dust ; 
Lost  the  calm  faith  in  goodness, — lost 
The  baptism  of  the  Pentecost ! 

"  Alas  ! — the  blows  for  error  meant 
Too  oft  on  truth  itself  are  spent, 
As  through  the  false  and  vile  and  base 
Looks  forth  her  sad,  rebuking  face. 

"  Not  ours  the  Theban's  charmed  life; 
We  come  not  scathless  from  the  strife  ! 
'The  Python's  coil  about  us  clings, 
The  trampled  Hydra  bites  and  stings ! 

"Meanwhile,  the  sport  of  seeming  chance, 
The  plastic  shapes  of  circumstance, 
What  might  have  been  we  fondly  guess, 
If  earlier  born,  or  tempted  less. 

"And  thou,  in  these  wild,  troubled  days, 
Misjudged  alike  in  blame  and  praise, 
Unsought  and  undeserved  the  same 
The  sceptic's  praise,  the  bigot's  blame  ; — 

"  I  cannot  doubt,  if  thou  hadst  been 
Among  the  highly  favored  men 
Who  walked  on  earth  with  Fenelon, 
He  would  have  owned  thee  as  his  son  ; 

"  And,  bright  with  wings  of  cherubim 
Visibly  waving  over  him, 
Seen  through  his  life,  the  Church  had  seemed 
All  that  its  old  confessors  dreamed. 

"I  would  have  been,"  Jean  Jaques  replied, 
"  The  humblest  servant  at  his  side, 
Obscure,  unknown,  content  to  see 
How  beautiful  man's  life  may  be ! 

"  O,  more  than  thrice-blest  relic,  more 
Than  solemn  rite  or  sacred  lore, 
The  holy  life  of  one  who  trod 
The  foot-marks  of  the  Christ  of  God ! 

"  Amidst  a  blinded  world  he,«aw 

The  oneness  of  the  Dual  law ; 

That  Heaven's  sweet  peace  on  Earth  began, 

And  God  was  loved  through  love  of  man. 


118 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


"  He  lived  the  Truth  which  reconciled 
The  strong  man  Reason,  Faith  the  child  : 
In  him  belief  and  act  were  one, 
The  homilies  of  duty  done  !  " 

So  speaking,  through  the  twilight  gray 
The  two  old  pilgrims  went  their  way. 
What  seeds  of  life  that  day  were  sown. 
The  heavenly  watchers  knew  alone. 

Time  passed,  and  Autumn  came  to  fold 
Green  Summer  in  her  brown  and  gold  ; 
Time  passed,  and  Winter's  tears  of  snow 
•Dropped  on  the  grave-mound  of  Rousseau. 

"  The  tree  remaineth  where  it  fell,    • 
The  pained  on  earth  is  pained  in  hell !  " 
So  priestcraft  from  its  altars  cursed 
The  mournful  doubts  its  falsehood  nursed. 

Ah  !  well  of  old  the  Psalmist  prayed, 
"  Thy  hand,  not  man's,  on  me  be  laid  !  " 
Earth  frowns  below,  Heaven  weeps  .above, 
And  man  is  hate,  but  God  is  love  ! 

No  Hermits  now  the  wanderer  sees, 
Nor  chapel  with  its  chestnut-trees  ; 
A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that 's  told, 
The  wave  of  change  o'er  all  has  rolled. 

X 

Yet  lives  the  lesson  of  that  day ; 
And  from  its  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Comes  up  a  low,  sad  whisper,  "  Make 
The  truth  thine  own,  for  truth's  own  sake. 

"Why  wait  to  see  in  thy  brief  span 
Its  perfect  flower  and  fruit  in  man  ? 
No  saintly  touch  can  save  ;  no  balm 
Of  healing  hath  the  martyr's  palm. 

"  Midst  soulless  forms,  and  false  pretence 
Of  spiritual  pride  and  pampered  sense, 
A  voice  saith,  '  What  is  that  to  thee  ? 
Be  true  thyself,  and  follow  Me  ! ' 

"  In  days  when  throne  and  altar  heard 
The  wanton's  wish,  the  bigot's  word, 
And  pomp  of  state  and  ritual  show 
Scarce  hid  the  loathsome  death  below, — 

"Midst  fawning  priests  and  courtiers  foul, 
The  losel  swarm  of  crown  and  cowl, 
White-robed  walked  Francois  Fenelon, 
Stainless  as  Uriel  in  the  sun  ! 

"  Yet  in  his  time  the  stake  blazed  red, 
The  poor  were  eaten  up  like  bread  ; 
Men  knew  him  not :  his  garment's  hem 
No  healing  virtue  had  for  them. 


"  Alas  !  no  present  saint  we  find ; 
The  white  cymar  gleams  far  behind, 
Revealed  in  outline  vague,  sublime, 
Through  telescopic  mists  of  time  ! 

' '  Trust  not  in  man  with  passing  breath, 
But  in  the  Lord,  old  Scripture  saith ; 
The  truth  which  saves  thou  mayst  not  blend 
With  false  professor,  faithless  friend. 

"  Search  thine  own  heart.     What  paineth  thee 

In  others  in  thyself  may  be  ; 

All  dust  is  frail,  all  flesh  is  weak ; 

Be  thou  the  true  man  thou  dost  seek ! 

' '  Where  now  with  pain  thou  tread est,  trod 
The  whitest  of  the  saints  of  God ! 
To  show  thee  where  their  feet  were  set, 
The  light  which  led  them  shineth  yet. 

"The  footprints  of  the  life  divine, 
Which  marked  their  path,  remain  in  thine  ; 
And  that  great  Life,  transfused  in  theirs, 
Awaits  thy  faith,  thy  love,  thy  prayers  !  " 

A  lesson  which  I  well  may  heed, 
A  word  of  fitness  to  my  need  ; 
So  from  that  twilight  cool  and  gray' 
Still  saith  a  voice,  or  seems  to  say. 

We  rose,  and  slowly  homeward  turned, 
While  down  the  west  the  sunset  burned ; 
And,  in  its  light,  hill,  wood,  and  tide, 
And  human  forms  seemed  glorified. 

The  village  homes  transfigured  stood, 
And  purple  bluffs,  whose  belting  wood 
Across  the  waters  leaned  to  hold 
The  yellow  leaves  like  lamps  of  gold. 

Then  spake  my  friend :  "  Thy  words  are  true ; 
Forever  old,  forever  new, 
These  home-seen  splendors  are  the  same 
Which  over  Eden's  sunsets  came. 

"  To  these  bowed  heavens  let  woqd  and  hill 
Lift  voiceless  praise  and  anthem  still ; 
Fall,  warm  with  blessing,  over  them, 
Light  of  the  New  Jerusalem  ! 

"  Flow  on,  sweet  river,  like  the  stream 
Of  John's  Apocalyptic  dream  ! 
This  mapled  ridge  shall  Horeb  be, 
Yon  green-banked  lake  our  Galilee  ! 

"Henceforth  my  heart  shall  sigh  no  more 
For  olden  time  and  holier  shore  ; 
God's  love  and  blessing,  then  and  there, 
Are  now  and  here  and  everywhere." 


QUESTIONS  OF  LIFE. 


119 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


QUESTIONS  OF  LIFE. 

And  the  angel  that  was  sent  unto  me,  whose  name 
was  Uriel,  gave  me  an  answer  and  said, 

•'  Thy  heart  hath  gone  too  far  in  this  world,  and  think- 
est  thou  to  comprehend  the  way  of  the  Most  High  ?  " 

Then  said  I,  "  Yea,  my  Lord." 

Then  said  he  unto  me,  "•  Go  thy  way,  weigh  me  the 
weight  of  the  fire  or  measure  me  the  blast  of  the  wind, 
or  call  me  again  the  day  that  is  past."  —  2  Esdraa,  chap. 
iv. 

A  BENDING  staff  I  would  not  break, 

A  feeble  faith  I  would  not  shake, 

Nor  even  rashly  pluck  away 

The  error  which  some  truth  may  stay, 

Whose  loss  might  leave  the  soul  without 

A  shield  against  the  shafts  of  doubt. 
.  "3tnd  yet,  at  times,  when  over  all 

A  darker  mystery  seems  to  fall, 

(May  God  forgive  the  child  of  dust, 

Who  seeks  to  know,  where  Faith  should  trust  !  ) 

T  raise  the  questions,  old  and  dark, 
'    OT  Uzdom's  tempted  patriarch, 

And,  speech-confounded,  build  again 

The  baffled  tower  of  Shinar's  plain. 


I  am  :  how  little  more  I  know  ! 
Whence  came  I  ?    Whither  do  I  go  ? 
A  centred  self,  which  feels  and  is  ; 

,cry  between  the  silences  ; 

shadow-birth  of  clouds  at  strife 
With  sunshine  on  the  hills  of  life  ; 
A  shaft  from  Nature's  quiver  cast 
Into  the  Future  from  the  Past  ; 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  shroud, 
A  meteor's  flight  from  cloud  to  cloud. 


Thorough  the  vastness,  arching  all, 

I  see  the  great  stars  rise  and  fall, 

The  rounding  seasons  come  and  go, 

The  tided  oceans  ebb  and  flow  ; 

The  tokens  of  a  central  force, 

Whose  circles,  in  their  widening  course, 

O'erlap  and  move  the  universe  ; 

The  workings  of  the  law  whence  springs 

The  rhythmic  harmony  of  things, 

Which  shapes  in  earth  the  darkling  spar, 

And  orbs  in  heaven  the  morning  star. 

Of  all  I  see,  in  earth  and  sky,^ 

STiar,  flower,  beast,  bird,  —  what  part  have  I  ? 

This  conscious  life,  —  is  it  the  same 

Which  thrills  the  universal  frame, 

Whereby  the  caverned  crystal  shoots, 

And  mounts  the  sap  from  forest  roots, 

Whereby  the  exiled  wood-bird  tells 

When  Spring  makes  green  her  native  dells  ? 

How  feels  the  stone  the  pang  of  birth, 

Which  brings  its  sparkling  prism  forth  ? 

The  forest-tree  the  throb  which  gives 

The  life-blood  to  its  new-born  leaves  ? 

Do  bird  and  blossom  feel,  like  me, 

Life's  many-folded  mystery,  — 

The  wonder  which  it  is  TO  BE  ? 

Or  stand  I  severed  and  distinct, 

From  Nature's  chain  of  life  unlinked  ? 

Allied  to  all,  yet  not  the  less 

Prisoned  in  separate  consciousness, 

Alone  o'erburdened  with  a  sense 

Of  life,  and  cause,  and  consequence  ? 


In  vain  to  me  the  Sphinx  propounds 
The  riddle  of  her  sights  and  sounds  ; 
Back  still  the  vaulted  mystery  gives 
The  echoed  question  it  receives. 
What  sings  the  brook  ?    What  oracle 
!  Is  in  the  pine-tree's  organ  swell  ? 
What  may  the  wind's  low  burden  be  ? 
The  meaning  of  the  moaning  sea  ? 
The  hieroglyphics  of  the  stars  ? 
Or  clouded  sunset's  crimson  bars  ? 
I  vainly  ask,  for  mocks  my  skill 
The  trick  of  Nature's  cipher  still. 

I  turn  from  Nature  unto  men, 

I  ask  the  stylus  and  the  pen  ; 

What  sang  the  bards  of  old  !     What  meant 

The  prophets  of  the  Orient  ? 

The  rolls  of  buried  Egypt,  hid 

In  painted  tomb  and  pyramid  ? 

What  mean  Idumea's  arrowy  lines, 

Or  dusk  Elora's  monstrous  signs  ? 

How  speaks  the  primal  thought  of  man 

From  the  grim  carvings  of  Copan  ? 

Where  rests  the  secret  ?    Where  the  keys 

Of  the  old  death-bolted  mysteries  ? 

Alas  !  the  dead  retain  their  trust ; 

Dust  hath  no  answer  from  the  dust. 

The  great  enigma  still  unguessed, 

Unanswered  the  eternal  quest ; 

I  gather  up  the  scattered  rays 

Of  wisdom  in  the  early  days, 

Faint  gleams  and  broken,  like  the  light 

Of  meteors  in  a  northern  night, 

Betraying  to  the  darkling  earth 

The  unseen  sun  which  gave  them  birth ; 

I  listen  to  the  sibyl's  chant, 

The  voice  of  priest  and  hierophant ; 

1  know  what  Indian  Kreeshna  saith, 

And  what  of  life  and  what  of  death 

The  demon  taught  to  Socrates ; 

And  what,  beneath  his  garden-trees 

Slow  pacing,  with  a  dream-like  tread, 

The  solemn-thoughted  Plato  said  ; 

Nor  lack  I  tokens,  great  or  small, 

Of  God's  clear  light  in  each  and  all, 

While  holding  with  more  dear  regard 

The  scroll  of  Hebrew  seer  and  bard, 

The  starry  pages  promise-lit 

With  Christ's  Evangel  over-writ, 

Thy  miracle  of  life  and  death, 

O  holy  one  of  Nazareth  ! 

On  Aztec  ruins,  gray  and  lone, 
The  circling  serpent  coils  in  stone, — 
Type  of  the  endless  and  unknown ; 
Whereof  we  seek  the  clew  to  find, 
With  groping  fingers  of  the  blind  ! 
Forever  sought,  and  never  found, 
We  trace  that  serpent-symbol  round 
Our  resting-place,  our  starting  bound  ! 
O  thriftlessness  of  dream  and  guess  ! 
O  wisdom  which  is  foolishness  ! 
Why  idly  seek  from  outward  things 
The  answer  inward  silence  brings ; 
Why  stretch  beyond  our  proper  sphere 
And  age,  for  that  which  lies  so  near  ? 
Why  climb  the  far-off  hills  with  pain, 
A  nearer  view  of  heaven  to  gain  V 
In  lowliest  depths  of  bosky  dells 


120 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  NAPLES.— MOLOCH  IN  STATE  STREET. 


The  hermit  Contemplation  dwells. 

A  fountain's  pine-hung  slope  his  seat, 

And  lotus-twined  his  silent  feet, 

Whence,  piercing  heaven,  with  screened  sight, 

He  sees  at  noon  the  stars,  whose  light 

Shall  glorify  the  coining  night. 

.     Here  let  me  pause,  my  quest  forego ; 

Enough  for  me  to  feel  and  know 
—That  He  in  whom  the  cause  and  end, 
The  past  and  future,  meet  and  blend, — 
Who,  girt  with  his  immensities, 
Our  vast  and  star-hung  system  sees, 
Small  as  the  clustered  Pleiades,— 
Moves  not  alone  the  heavenly  quires, 
But  waves  the  spring-time's  grassy  spires, 
Guards  not  archangel  feet  alone, 
But  deigns  to  guide  and  keep  my  own  ; 
Speaks  not  alone  the  words  of  fate 
Which  worlds  destroy,  and  worlds  create, 
But  whispers  in  my  spirit's  ear, 
In  tones  of  love,  or  warning  fear, 
A  language  none  beside  may  hear. 

To  Him,  from  wanderings  long  and  wild, 

I  come,  an  over-wearied  child, 

In  cool  and  shade  his  peace  to  find, 

Like  dew-fall  settling  on  my  mind. 

Assured  that  all  I  know  is  best, 

And  humbly  trusting  for  the  rest, 

I  turn  from  Fancy's  cloud-built  scheme, 

Dark  creed,  and  mournful  eastern  dream 

Of  power,  impersonal  and  cold, 

Controlling  all,  itself  controlled, 

Maker  and  slave  of  iron  laws, 

Alike  the  subject  and  the  cause  ; 

From  vain  philosophies,  that  try 

The  sevenfold  gates  of  mystery, 

And,  baffled  ever,  babble  still, 

Word-prodigal  of  fate  and  will ; 

From  Nature,  and  her  mockery,  Art, 

And  book  and  speech  of  men  apart, 

To  the  still  witness  in  my  heart ; 

With  reverence  waiting  to  behold 

His  Avatar  of  love  untold, 

The  Eternal  Beauty  new  and  old  ! 


THE  PRISONERS  OF  NAPLES. 

I  HAVE  been  thinking  of  the  victims  bound 

In  Naples,  dying  for  the  lack  of  air 

And  sunshine,  in  their  close,  damp  cells  of  pain, 

Where  hope  is  not,  and  innocence  in  vain 

Appeals  against  the  torture  and  the  chain  ! 

Unfortunates  !  whose  crime  it  was  to  share 

Our  common  love  of  freedom,  and  to  dare, 

In  its  behalf,  Rome's  harlot  triple-crowned, 

And  her  base  pander,  the  most  hateful  thing 

Who  upon  Christian  or  on  Pagan  ground 

Makes  vile  the  old  heroic  name  of  king. 

O  God  most  merciful !     Father  just  and  kind  ! 

Whom  man  hath  bound  let  thy  right  hand  unbind. 

Or,  if  thy  purposes  of  good  behind 

Their  ills  lie  hidden,  let  the  sufferers  find 

Strong  consolations ;  leave  them  not  to  doubt 

Thy  providential  care,  nor  yet  without 

The  hope  which  all  thy  attributes  inspire, 

That  not  in  vain  the  martyr's  robe  of  fire 

Is  worn,  nor  the  sad  prisoner's  fretting  chain ; 

Since  all  who  suffer  for  thy  truth  send  forth, 

Electrical,  with  every  throb  of  pain, 

Unquenchable  sparks,  thy  own  baptismal  rain 

Of  fire  and  spirit  over  all  the  earth, 

Making  the  dead  in  slavery  live  again. 

Let  this  great  hope  be  with  them,  as  they  lie 

Shut  from  the  light,  the  greenness,  and  the  sky, — 


From  the  cool  waters  and  the  pleasant  breeze, 
The  smell  of  flowers,  and  shade  of  summer  trees ; 
Bound  with  the  felon  lepers,  whom  disease 
And    sins   abhorred  make  loathsome ;   let  them 

share 

Pellico's  faith,  Foresti's  strength  to  bear 
Years  of  unutterable  torment,  stern  and  still, 
As  the  chained  Titan  victor  through  his  will ! 
Comfort  them  with  thy  future ;  let  them  see 
The  day-dawn  of  Italian  liberty  ; 
For  that,  with  all  good  things,  is  hid  with  Thee, 
And,  perfect  in  thy  thought,  awaits  its  time  to 

be! 

I,  who  have  spoken  for  freedom  at  the  cost 
Of  some  weak  friendships,  or  some  paltry  prize 
Of  name  or  place,  and  more  than  I  have  lost 
Have  gained  in  wider  reach  of  sympathies, 
And  free  communion  with  the  good  and  wise,- 
May  God  forbid  that  I  should  ever  boast 
Such  easy  self-denial,  or  repine 
That  the  strong  pulse  of  health  no  more  is  mine ; 
That,  overworn  at  noonday,  I  must  yield 
To  other  hands  the  gleaning  of  the  field, — 
A  tired  on-looker  through  the  day's  decline. 
For  blest  beyond  deserving  still,  and  knowing 
That  kindly  Providence  its  care  is  showing 
In  the  withdrawal  as  in  the  bestowing, 
Scarcely  I  dare  for  more  or  less  to  pray. 
Beautiful  yet  for  me  this  autumn  day 
Melts  on  its  sunset  hills  ;  and,  far  away, 
For  me  the  Ocean  lifts  its  solemn  psalm, 
Tome  the  pine-woods  whisper;  and  for  me 
Yon  river,  winding  through  its  vales  of  calm, 
By  greenest  banks,  with  asters  purple-starred, 
And  gentian  bloom  and  golden-rod  made  gay, 
Flows  down  in  silent  gladness  to  the  sea, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  to  its  great  reward  ! 

Nor  lack  I  friends,  long-tried  and  near  and  dear, 
Whose  love  is  round  me  like  this  atmosphere, 
Warm,  soft,  and  golden.     For  such  gifts  to  me 
What  shall  I  render,  O  my  God,  to  thee  ? 
Let  me  not  dwell  upon  my  lighter  share 
Of  pain  and  ill  that  human  life  must  bear  ; 
Save  me  from  selfish  pining ;  let  my  heart, 
Drawn  from  itself  in  sympathy,  forget 
The  bitter  longings  of  a  vain  regret, 
The  anguish  of  its  own  peculiar  smart. 
Remembering  others,  as  I  have  to-day, 
In  their  great  sorrows,  let  me  live  alway 
Not  for  myself  alone,  but  have  a  part, 
Such  as  a  frail  and  erring  spirit  may, 
In  love  which  is  of  Thee,  and  which  indeed  Thou 
art! 


MOLOCH  IN  STATE    STREET. 

THE  moon  has  set :  while  yet  the  dawn 

Breaks  cold  and  gray, 
Between  the  midnight  and  the  morn. 

Bear  off  your  prey  ! 

On,  swift  and  still ! — the  conscious  street 

Is  panged  and  stirred  ; 
Tread  light ! — that  fall  of  serried  feet 

The  dead  have  heard  ! 

The  first  drawn  blood  of  Freedom's  veins 

Gushed  where  ye  tread  ; 
Lo  !  through  the  dusk  the  martyr-stains 

Blush  darkly  red ! 

Beneath  the  slowly  waning  stars 

And  whitening  day, 
What  stern  and  awful  presence  bars 

That  sacred  way  ? 


THE  PEACE  OF  EUROPE.— WORDSWORTH. 


121 


What  faces  frown  upon  ye,  dark 

With  shame  and  pain  ? 
Come  these  from  Plymouth's  Pilgrim  bark 
Is  that  young  Vane  V 

Who,  dimly  beckoning,  speed  ye  on 

With  mocking  cheer  V 
Lo  !  spectral  Andros,  Hutchinson, 

And  Gage  are  here  ! 

For  ready  mart  or  favoring  blast 

Through  Moloch's  fire 
Flesh  of  his  flesh,  unsparing,  passed 

The  Tyrian  sire. 

Ye  make  that  ancient  sacrifice 

Of  Man  to  Gain, 
Your  traffic  thrives,  where  Freedom  dies, 

Beneath  the  chain. 

Ye  sow  to-day,  your  harvest,  scorn 

And  hate,  is  near ; 
How  think  ye  freemen,  mountain-born, 

The  tale  will  hear  ? 

Thank  God  !  our  mother  State  can  yet 

Her  fame  retrieve ; 
To  you  and  to  your  children  let 

The  scandal  cleave. 

Chain  Hall  and  Pulpit,  Court  and  Press, 

Make  gods  of  gold  ; 
Let  honor,  truth,  and  manliness 

Like  wares  be  sold. 

Your  hoards  are  great,  your  walls  are  strong, 

But  God  is  just ; 
The  gilded  chambers  built  by  Wrong 

Invite  the  rust. 

What !  know  ye  not  the  gains  of  Crime 

Are  dust  and  dross  ; 
Its  ventures  on  the  waves  of  time 

Foredoomed  to  loss ! 

And  still  the  Pilgrim  State  remains 

What  she  hath  been  ; 
Her  inland  hills,  her  seaward  plains, 

Still  nurture  men ! 

Nor  wholly  lost  the  fallen  mart, — 

Her  olden  blood 
Through  many  a  free  and  generous  heart 

Still  pours  its  flood. 

That  brave  old  blood,  quick-flowing  yet, 

Shall  know  no  check, 
Till  a  free  people's  foot  is  set 

On  Slavery's  neck. 

Even  now,  the  peal  of  bell  and  gun, 

And  hills  aflame, 
Tell  of  the  first  great  triumph  won 

In  Freedom's  name.65 

The  long  night  dies  :  the  welcome  gray 

Of  dawn  we  see  ; 
Speed  up  the  heavens  thy  perfect  day, 

God  of  the  free  ! 

1851. 


THE  PEACE  OF  EUROPE. 
1852. 

"  GREAT  peace  in  Europe  !     Order  reigns 
From  Tiber's  hills  to  Danube's  plains  !  " 
So  say  her  kings  and  priests ;  so  say 
The  lying  prophets  of  our  day. 


Go  lay  to  earth  a  listening  ear  ; 
The  tramp  of  measured  marches  hear, — 
The  rolling  of  the  cannon's  wheel, 
The  shotted  musket's  murderous  peal, 
The  night  alarm,  the  sentry's  call, 
The  quick-eared  spy  in  hut  and  hall ! 
From  Polar  sea  and  tropic  fen 
The  dying-groans  of  exiled  men  ! 
The  bolted  cell,  the  galley's  chains, 
The  scaffold  smoking  with  its  stains  ! 
Order, — the  hush  of  brooding  slaves  ! 
Peace, — in  the  dungeon-vaults  and  graves  ! 

O  Fisher  !  of  the  world- wide  net, 

With  meshes  in  all  waters  set, 

Whose  fabled  keys  of  heaven  and  hell 

Bolt  hard  the  patriot's  prison-cell, 

And  open  wide  the  banquet-hall, 

Where  kings  and  priests  hold  carnival ! 

Weak  vassal  tricked  in  royal  guise, 

Boy  Kaiser  with  thy  lip  of  lies  ; 

Base  gambler  for  Napoleon's  crown, 

Barnacle  on  his  dead  renown  ! 

Thou,  Bourbon  Neapolitan, 

Crowned  scandal,  loathed  of  God  and  man ; 

And  thou,  fell  Spider  of  the  North  ! 

Stretching  thy  giant  feelers  forth, 

Within  whose  web  the  freedom  dies 

Of  nations  eaten  up  like  flies  ! 

Speak,  Prince  and  Kaiser,  Priest  and  Czar  ! 

If  this  be  Peace,  pray  what  is  War  ? 

White  Angel  of  the  Lord  !  unmeet 

That  soil  accursed  for  thy  pure  feet. 

Never  in  Slavery's  desert  flows 

The  fountain  of  thy  charmed  repose  ; 

No  tyrant's  hand  thy  chaplet  weaves 

Of  lilies  and  of  olive-leaves  ; 

Not  with  the  wicked  shalt  thou  dwell, 

Thus  saith  the  Eternal  Oracle ; 

Thy  home  is  with  the  pure  and  free  ! 

Stern  herald  of  thy  better  day, 

Before  thee,  to  prepare  thy  way, 

The  Baptist  Shade  of  Liberty, 

Gray,  scarred  and  hairy-robed,  must  press 

With  bleeding  feet  the  wilderness  ! 

O  that  its  voice  might  pierce  the  ear 

Of  princes,  trembling  while  they  hear 

A  cry  as  of  the  Hebrew  seer  : 

Repent.!  God's  kingdom  draweth  near ! 


WORDSWORTH. 

WRITTEN  ON  A  BLANK  LEAF  OF  HIS  MEMOIRS. 

DEAR  friends,  who  read  the  world  aright, 
And  in  its  common  forms  discern 

A  beauty  and  a  harmony 
The  many  never  learn  ! 

Kindred  in  soul  of  him  who  found 
In  simple  flower  and  leaf  and  stone 

The  impulse  of  the  sweetest  lays 
Our  Saxon  tongue  has  known, — 

Accept  this  record  of  a  life 

As  sweet  and  pure,  as  calm  and  good, 
As  a  long  day  of  blandest  June 

In  green  field  and  in  wood. 

How  welcome  to  our  ears,  long  pained 
By  strife  of  sect  and  party  noise, 

The  brook -like  murmur  of  his  song 
Of  nature's  simple  joys  ! 


122 


PEACE.— BENEDICITE. 


The  violet  by  its  mossy  stone, 
The  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 

And  chance -sown  daffodil,  have  found 
Immortal  life  through  him. 

The  sunrise  on  his  breezy  lake, 
The  rosy  tints  his  sunset  brought, 

World-seen,  are  gladdening  all  the  vales 
And  mountain-peaks  of  thought. 

Art  builds  on  sand ;  the  works  of  pride 
And  human  passion  change  and  fall ; 

But  that  which  shares  the  life  of  God 
With  him  surviveth  all. 


TO 


LINES    WRITTEN    AFTER    A    SUMMER    DAY'S 
EXCURSION. 

FAIR  Nature's  priestesses !  to  whom, 
In  hieroglyph  of  bud  and  bloom, 

Her  mysteries  are  told ; 
Who,  wise  in  lore  of  wood  and  mead, 
The  seasons'  pictured  scrolls  can  read, 

In  lessons  manifold ! 

Thanks  for  the  courtesy,  and  gay 
Good-humor,  which  on  Washing  Day 

Our  ill-timed  visit  bore  ; 
Thanks  for  your  graceful  oars,  which  broke 
The  morning  dreams  of  Artichoke, 

Along  his  wooded  shore  ! 

Varied  as  varying  Nature's  ways, 
Sprites  of  the  river,  woodland  fays, 

Or  mountain  nymphs,  ye  seem  ; 
Free-limbed  Dianas  on  the  green, 
Loch  Katrine's  Ellen,  or  Undine, 

Upon  your  favorite  stream. 

The  forms  of  which  the  poets  told, 
The  fair  benignities  of  old, 

Were  doubtless  such  as  you  ; 
What  more  than  Artichoke  the  rill 
Of  Helicon  ?    Than  Pipe-stave  hill 

Arcadia's  mountain-view  ? 

No  sweeter  bowers  the  bee  delayed, 
In  wild  Hymettus'  scented  shade, 

Than  those  you  dwell  among ; 
Snow-flowered  azalias,  intertwined 
With  roses,  over  banks  inclined 

With  trembling  harebells  hung  ! 

A  charmed  life  unknown  to  death, 
Immortal  freshness  Nature  hath  ; 

Her  fabled  fount  and  glen 
Are  now  and  here  :  Dodona's  shrine 
Still  murmurs  in  the  wind-swept  pine, — 

All  is  that  e'er  hath  been. 

The  Beauty  which  old  Greece  or  Rome 
Sung,  painted,  wrought,  lies  close  at  home  ; 

We  need  but  eye  and  ear 
In  all  our  daily  walks  to  trace 
The  outlines  of  incarnate  grace, 

The  hymns  of  gods  to  hear  ! 


IN  PEACE. 

A  TRACK  of  moonlight  on  a  quiet  lake, 

Whose  small  waves  on  a  silver-sanded  shore 
Whisper  of  peace,  and  with  the  low  winds  make 
Such  harmonies  as  keep  the  woods  awake, 


And  listening  all  night  long  for  their  sweet  sake ; 

A  green-waved  slope  of  meadow,  hovered  o'er 
By  angel-troops  of  lilies,  swaying  light 
On  viewless  stems,  with  folded  wings  of  white ; 
A  slumberous  stretch  of  mountain-land,  far  seen 
Where  the  low  westering  day,  with  gold  and  green, 
Purple  and  amber,  softly  blended,  fills 
The  wooded  vales,  and  melts  among  the  hills  ; 
A  vine-fringed  river,  winding  to  its  rest 

On  the  calm  bosom  of  a  stormless  sea, 
Bearing  alike  upon  its  placid  breast, 
With    earthly  flowers   and   heavenly  stars   im 
pressed, 

The  hues  of  time  and  of  eternity ; 
Such  are  the  pictures  which  the  thought  of  thee, 
O  friend,  awakeneth,  — charming  the  keen  pain 

Of  thy  departure,  and  our  sense  of  loss 
Requiting  with  the  fulness  of  thy  gain. 

Lo  !  on  the  quiet  grave  thy  life-borne  cross, 
Dropped  only  at  its  side,  methinks  doth  shine, 
Of  thy  beatitude  the  radiant  sign  ! 

No  sob  of  grief,  no  wild  lament  be  there, 

To  break  the  Sabbath  of  the  holy  air  ; 
But,  in  their  stead,  the  silent-breathing  prayer 
Of  hearts  still  waiting  for  a  rest  like  thine. 
O  spirit  redeemed  !     Forgive  us,  if  henceforth, 
With  sweet  and  pure  similitudes  of  earth, 

We  keep  thy  pleasant  memory  freshly  green, 
Of  love's  inheritance  a  priceless  part, 

Which  Fancy's  self,  in  reverent  awe,  is  seen 
To  paint,  forgetful  of  the  tricks  of  art, 

With  pencil  dipped  alone  in  colors  of  the  heart. 


BENEDICITE. 

GOB'S  love  and  peace  be  with  thee,  where 
Soe'er  this  soft  autumnal  air 
Lifts  the  dark  tresses  of  thy  hair  ! 

Whether  through  city  casements  comes 
Its  kiss  to  thee,  in  crowded  rooms, 
Or,  out  among  the  woodland  blooms, 

It  freshens  o'er  thy  thoughtful  face, 
Imparting,  in  its  glad  embrace, 
Beauty  to  beauty,  grace  to  grace  ! 

Fair  Nature's  book  together  read, 

The  old  wood-paths  that  knew  our  tread, 

The  maple  shadows  overhead, — 

The  hills  we  climbed,  the  river  seen 
By  gleams  along  its  deep  ravine, — 
All  keep  thy  memory  fresh  and  green. 

Where'er  I  look,  where'er  I  stray, 
Thy  thought  goes  with  me  on  my  way, 
And  hence  the  prayer  I  breathe  to-day  ; 

O'er  lapse  of  time  and  change  of  scene, 
The  weary  waste  which  lies  between 
Thyself  and  me,  my  heart  I  lean. 

Thou  lack'st  not  Friendship's  spell-word,  nor 
The  half-unconscious  power  to  draw 
All  hearts  to  thine  by  Love's  sweet  law. 

With  these  good  gifts  of  God  is  cast 
Thy  lot,  and  many  a  charm  thou  hast 
To  hold  the  blessed  angels  fast. 

[f,  then,  a  fervent  wish  for  thee 

The  gracious  heavens  will  heed  from  me, 

What  should,  dear  heart,  its  burden  be  ? 

The  sighing  of  a  shaken  reed, — 
iVhat  can  1  more  than  meekly  plead 
The  greatness  of  our  common  need  ? 


PICTURES.  — DERNE. 


123 


God's  love, — unchanging,  pure,  and  true,- 
The  Paraclete  white-shining  through 
His  peace, — the  fall  of  Her  men's  dew  ! 

With  such  a  prayer,  on  this  sweet  day, 
As  thou  mayst  hear  and  I  may  say, 
I  greet  thee,  dearest,  far  away  ! 


PICTURES. 


LIGHT,   warmth,   and  sprouting  greenness,  and 

o'er  all 

Blue,  stainless,  steel-bright  ether,  raining  down 
Tranquillity  upon  the  deep-hushed  town, 
The    freshening  meadows,   and  the    hillsides 

brown ; 
Voice  of  the   west-wind  from  the  hills  of 

pine, 

And  the  brimmed  river  from  its  distant  fall, 
Low  hum  of  bees,  and  joyous  interlude 
Of  bird-songs  in  the  streamlet-skirting  wood, — 
Heralds  and  prophecies  of  sound  and  sight, 
Blessed  forerunners  of  the  warmth  and  light, 
Attendant  angels  to  the  house  of  prayer, 

With  reverent  footsteps  keeping  pace  with 

mine, — 
Once  more,  through  God's  great  love,  with  you  I 

share 
A  morn  of  resurrection  sweet  and  fair 

As  that  which  saw,  of  old,  in  Palestine, 
Immortal  Love  uprising  in  fresh  bloom 
From  the  dark  night  and  whiter  of  the  tomb  ! 

5th  mo.,  2d,  1852. 


White  with  its  sun- bleached  dust,  the  pathway 

winds 

Before  me  ;  dust  is  on  the  shrunken  grass, 
And  on  the  trees  beneath  whose  boughs  I  pass ; 
Frail  screen  against  the  Hunter  of  the  sky, 
Who,  glaring  on  me  with  his  lidless  eye, 

While  mounting  with  his  dog-star  high  and 

higher 
Ambushed  in  light  intolerable,  unbinds 

The  burnished  quiver  of  his  shafts  of  fire. 
Between  me  and  the  hot  fields  of  his  South 
A  tremulous  glow,  as  from  a  furnace-mouth, 
Glimmers  and  swims  before  my  dazzled  sight, 

As  if  the  burning  arrows  of  his  ire 
Broke  as  they  fell,  and  shattered  into  light ; 
Yet  on  my  cheek  I  feel  the  western  wind, 
And  hear  it  telling  to  the  orchard  trees, 
And  to  the  faint  and  flower-forsaken  bees, 
Tales  of  fair  meadows,  green  with  constant 

streams, 
And  mountains  rising  blue  and  cool  behind, 

Where  in  moist  dells  the  purple  orchis  gleams, 
And  starred  with  white  the  virgin's  bower  is 

twined. 
So  the  o'erwearied  pilgrim,  as  he  fares 

Along  life's  summer  waste,  at  times  is  fanned, 
Even  at  noontide,  by  the  cool,  sweet  airs 
Of  a  serener  and  a  holier  land, 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  as  the  dew-fall  bland. 
Breath  of    the   blessed    Heaven  for  which  we 

pray, 

Blow  from  the  eternal    hills ! — make  glad  our 
earthly  way  ! 


8th  mo.,  1852. 


DERNE.58 

NIGHT  on  the  city  of  the  Moor ! 

On  mosque  and  tomb,  and  white-walled  shore, 

On  sea-waves,  to  whose  ceaseless  knock 

The  narrow  harbor-gates  unlock, 

On  corsair's  galley,  carack  tall, 

And  plundered  Christian  caraval ! 

The  sounds  of  Moslem  life  are  still ; 

No  mule-bell  tinkles  down  the  hill ; 

Stretched  in  the  broad  court  of  the  khan, 

The  dusty  Bornou  caravan 

Lies  heaped  in  slumber,  beast  and  man  • 

The  Sheik  is  dreaming  in  his  tent, 

His  noisy  Arab  tongue  o'erspent ; 

The  kiosk's  glimmering  lights  are  gone, 

The  merchant  with  his  wares  withdrawn  ; 

Rough  pillowed  on  some  pirate  breast, 

The  dancing-girl  has  sunk  to  rest ; 

And,  save  where  measured  footsteps  fall 

Along  the  Bashaw's  guarded  wall, 

Or  where,  like  some  bad  dream,  the  Jew 

Creeps  stealthily  his  quarter  through, 

Or  counts  with  fear  his  golden  heaps, 

The  City  of  the  Corsair  sleeps  ! 

But  where  yon  prison  long  and  low 
Stands  black  against  the  pale  star-glow, 
Chafed  by  the  ceaseless  wash  of  waves, 
There  watch  and  pine  the  Christian  slaves  ; — 
Rough-bearded  men,  whose  far-off  wives 
I  Wear  out  with  grief  their  lonely  lives  ; 
And  youth,  still  flashing  from  his  eyes 
!  The  clear  blue  of  New  England  skies, 
1  A  treasured  lock  of  whose  soft  hair 
Now  wakes  some  Borrowing  mother's  prayer ; 
Or,  worn  upon  some  maiden  breast, 
Stirs  with  the  loving  heart's  unrest  ! 

A  bitter  cup  each  life  must  drain, 
The  groaning  earth  is  cursed  with  pain, 
And,  like  the  scroll  the  angel  bore 
The  shuddering  Hebrew  seer  before, 
O'erwrit  alike,  without,  within, 
With  all  the  woes  which  follow  sin  ; 
But,  bitterest  of  the  ills  beneath 
Whose  load  man  totters  down  to  death, 
Is  that  which  plucks  the  regal  crown 
Of  Freedom  from  his  forehead  down, 
And  snatches  from  his  powerless  hand 
The  sceptred  sign  of  self-command, 
Effacing  with  the  chain  and  rod 
The  image  and  the  seal  of  God ; 
Till  from  his  nature,  day  by  day, 
The  manly  virtues  fall  away, 
And  leave  him  naked,  blind  and  mute, 
The  godlike  merging  in  the  brute  ! 

Why  mourn  the  quiet  ones  who  die 
Beneath  affection's  tender  eye, 
Unto  their  household  and  their  kin 
Like  ripened  corn-sheaves  gathered  in  ? 
O  weeper,  from  that  tranquil  sod, 
That  holy  harvest-home  of  God, 
Turn  to  the  quick  and  suffering, — shed 
Thy  tears  upon  the  living  dead  ! 
Thank  God  above  thy  dear  ones'  graves, 
They  sleep  with  Him, — they  are  not  slaves. 

What  dark  mass,  down  the  mountain-sides 
Swift-pouring,  like  a  stream  divides  ? — 
A  long,  loose,  straggling  caravan, 
Camel  and  horse  and  armed  man. 
The  moon's  low  crescent,  glimmering  o'er 
Its  grave  of  waters  to  the  shore, 
Lights  up  that  mountain  cavalcade, 
And  glints  from  gun  and  spear  and  blade 
Near  and  more  near  ! — now  o'er  them  falls 
The  shadow  of  the  city  walls. 


124 


ASTREA.— INVOCATION  —THE  CROSS. 


Hark  to  the  sentry's  challenge,  drowned 
In  the  fierce  trumpet's  chargi»g  sound  ! — 
The  rush  of  men,  the  musket's  peal, 
The  short,  sharp  clang  of  meeting  steel ! 

Vain,  Moslem,  vain  thy  lifeblood  poured 
So  freely  on  thy  foeman's  sword  ! 
Not  to  the  swift  nor  to  the  strong 
The  battles  of  the  right  belong ; 
For  he  who  strikes  for  Freedom  wears 
The  armor  of  the  captive's  prayers, 
And  Nature  proffers  to  his  cause 
The  strength  of  her  eternal  laws ; 
While  he  whose  arm  essays  to  bind 
And  herd  with  common  brutes  his  kind 
Strives  evermore  at  fearful  odds 
With  Nature  and  the  jealous  gods, 
And  dares  the  dread  recoil  which  late 
Or  soon  their  right  shall  vindicate. 

'T  is  done, — the  horned  crescent  falls  ! 
The  star-flag  flouts  the  broken  walls  ! 
Joy  to  the  captive  husband  !  joy 
To  thy  sick  heart,  O  brown-locked  boy  ! 
In  sullen  wrath  the  conquered  Moor 
Wide  open  flings  your  dungeon-door, 
And  leaves  ye  free  from  cell  and  chain, 
The  owners  of  yourselves  again. 
Dark  as  his  allies  desert-born, 
Soiled  with  the  battle's  stain,  and  worn 
With  the  long  marches  of  his  band 
Through  hottest  wastes  of  rock  and  sand,- 
Scorched  by  the  sun  and  furnace-breath 
Of  the  red  desert's  wind  of  death, 
With  welcome  words  and  grasping  hands, 
The  victor  and  deliverer  stands  ! 

The  tale  is  one  of  distant  skies  ; 

The  dust  of  half  a  century  lies 

Upon  it ;   yet  its  hero's  name 

Still  lingers  on  the  lips  of  Fame. 

Men  speak  the  praise  of  him  who  gave 

Deliverance  to  the  Moorman's  slave, 

Yet  dare  to  brand  with  shame  and  crime 

The  heroes  of  our  land  and  time,— 

The  self -forgetful  ones,  who  stake 

Home,  name,  and  life  for  Freedom's  sake. 

God  mend  his  heart  who  cannot  feel 

The  impulse  of  a  holy  zeal, 

And  sees  not,  with  his  sordid  eyes, 

The  beauty  of  self-sacrifice  ! 

Though  in  the  sacred  place  he  stands, 

Uplifting  consecrated  hands, 

Unworthy  are  his  lips  to  tell 

Of  Jesus'  martyr -miracle, 

Or  name  aright  that  dread  embrace 

Of  suffering  for  a  fallen  race  ! 


ASTHMA. 

"  Jove  means  to  settle 
Astrrea  in  her  seat  again, 
And  let  down  from  his  golden  chain 
An  age  of  better  metal." 

BEN  JONSON,  1615. 

O  POET  rare  and  old  ! 

Thy  words  are  prophecies  : 
Forward  the  age  of  gold, 

The  new  Saturnian  lies. 

The  universal  prayer 
And  hope  are  not  in  vain  ; 

Rise,  brothers  !  and  prepare 
The  way  for  Saturn's  reign. 


Perish  shall  all  which  takes 
From  labor's  board  and  can  ; 

Perish  shall  all  which  makes 
A  spaniel  of  the  man  ! 

Free  from  its  bonds  the  mind, 
The  body  from  the  rod  ; 

Broken  all  chains  that  bind 
The  image  of  our  God. 

Just  men  no  longer  pine 
Behind  their  prison-bars ; 

Through  the  rent  dungeon  shine 
The  free  sun  and  the  stars. 

Earth  own,  at  last,  untrod, 
By  sect,  or  caste,  or  clan, 

The  fatherhood  of  God, 
The  brotherhood  of  man  ! 

Fraud  fail,  craft  perish,  forth 
The  money-changers  driven, 

And  God's  will  done  on  earth, 
As  now  in  heaven  ! 


INVOCATION. 

Through  thy  clear  spaces,  Lord,  of  old, 
Formless  and  void  the  dead  earth  rolled  ; 
Deaf  to  thy  heaven's  sweet  music,  blind 
To  the  great  lights  which  o'er  it  shined  ; 
No  sound,  no  ray,  no  warmth,  no  breath, — 
A  dumb  despair,  a  wandering  death. 

To  that  dark,  weltering  horror  came 
Thy  spirit,  like  a  subtle  flame, — 
A  breath  of  life  electrical, 
Awakening  and  transforming  all, 
Till  beat  and  thrilled  in  every  part 
The  pulses  of  a  living  heart. 

Then  knew  their  bounds  the  land  and  sea ; 
Then  smiled  the  bloom  of  mead  and  tree ; 
From  flower  to  moth,  from  beast  to  man, 
The  quick  creative  impulse  ran  ; 
And  earth,  with  life  from  thee  renewed, 
Was  in  thy  holy  eyesight  good. 

As  lost  and  void,  as  dark  and  cold 
And  formless  as  that  earth  of  old, — 
A  wandering  waste  of  storm  and  night, 
Midst  spheres  of  song  and  realms  of  light,  - 
A  blot  upon  thy  holy  sky, 
Untouched,  unwarned  of  thee,  am  I. 

O  thou  who  mo  vest  on  the  deep 
Of  spirits,  wake  my  own  from  sleep ! 
Its  darkness  melt,  its  coldness  warm, 
The  lost  restore,  the  ill  transform, 
That  flower  and  fruit  henceforth  may  be 
Its  grateful  offering,  worthy  thee. 


THE   CROSS. 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    RICHARD    DILLINGHAM,    IN 
THE   NASHVILLE   PENITENTIARY. 

"  THE  cross,  if  rightly  borne,  shall  be 
No  burden,  but  support  to  thee"  ;  * 
So,  moved  of  old  time  for  our  sake, 
The  holy  monk  of  Kempen  spake. 

*  Thomas  a  Kempis.     Imit.  Christ. 


EVA.— FREDRIKA  BREMER.— APRIL. 


125 


Thou  brave  and  true  one  !  upon  whom 
Was  laid  the  cross  of  martyrdom, 
How  didst  thou,  in  thy  generous  youth 
Bear  witness  to  this  blessed  truth  ! 

Thy  cross  of  suffering  and  of  shame 
A  staff  within  thy  hands  became, 
In  paths  where  faith  alone  could  see 
The  Master's  steps  supporting  thee. 

Thine  was  the  seed-time ;  God  alone 
Beholds  the  end  of  what  is  sown  ; 
Beyond  our  vision,  weak  and  dim, 
The  harvest-time  is  hid  with  Him. 

Yet,  unforgotten  where  it  lies, 
That  seed  of  generous  sacrifice, 
Though  seeming  on  the  desert  cast, 
Shall  rise  with  bloom  and  fruit  at  last. 


EVA. 

DRY  the  tears  for  holy  Eva, 
With  the  blessed  angels  leave  her  ; 
Of  the  form  so  soft  and  fair 
Give  to  earth  the  tender  care. 

For  the  golden  locks  of  Eva 
Let  the  sunny  south-land  give  her 
Flowery  pillow  of  repose, — 
Orange-bloom  and  budding  rose. 

In  the  better  home  of  Eva 
Let  the  shining  ones  receive  her, 
With  the  welcome-voiced  psalm, 
Harp  of  gold  and  waving  palm  ! 

All  is  light  and  peace  with  Eva ; 
There  the  darkness  cometh  never  ; 
Tears  are  wiped,  and  fetters  fall, 
And  the  Lord  is  all  in  all. 

Weep  no  more  for  happy  Eva, 
Wrong  and  sin  no  more  shall  grieve  her 
Care  and  pain  and  weariness 
Lost  in  love  so  measureless. 

Gentle  Eva,  loving  Eva, 
Child  confessor,  true  believer, 
Listener  at  the  Master's  knee, 
"  Suffer  such  to  come  to  me." 

O,  for  faith  like  thine,  sweet  Eva, 
Lighting  all  the  solemn  river, 
And  the  blessings  of  the  poor 
Wafting  to  the  heavenly  shore  ! 


TO  FREDRIKA  BREMER.57 

SEERESS  of  the  misty  Norland, 
Daughter  of  the  Vikings  bold, 

Welcome  to  the  sunny  Vineland 
Which  thy  fathers  sought  of  old  ! 

Soft  as  flow  of  Silja's  waters, 

When  the  moon  of  summer  shines, 

Strong  as  Winter  from  his  mountains 
Roaring  through  the  sleeted  pines. 

Heart  and  ear,  we  long  have  listened 
To  thy  saga,  rune,  and  song, 

As  a  household  joy  and  presence 
We  have  known  and  loved  thee  long. 


By  the  mansion's  marble  mantel, 
Round  the  log- walled  cabin's  hearth, 

Thy  sweet  thoughts  and  northern  fancies 
Meet  and  mingle  with  our  mirth. 

And  o'er  weary  spirits  keeping 
Sorrow's  night-watch,  long  and  chill, 

Shine  they  like  thy  sun  of  summer 
Over  midnight  vale  and  hill.   . 

We  alone  to  thee  are  strangers, 
Thou  our  friend  and  teacher  art ; 

Come,  and  know  us  as  we  know  thee ; 
Let  us  meet  thee  heart  to  heart ! 

To  our  homes  and  household  altars 
We,  in  turn,  thy  steps  would  lead, 

As  thy  loving  hand  has  led  us 
O'er  the  threshold  of  the  Swede. 


APRIL. 

"  The  spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way." 

Christabel. 

'  Tis  the  noon  of  the  spring-time,  yet  never  a  bird 

In  the  wind-shaken  elm  or  the  maple  is  heard  ; 

For  green  meadow-grasses  wide  levels  of  snow, 

And  blowing  of  drifts  where  the  crocus  should 
blow; 

Where  wind-flower  and  violet,  amber  and  white, 

On  south-sloping  brooksides  should  smile  in  the 
light, 

O'er  the  cold  winter-beds  of  their  late-waking 
roots 

The  frosty  flake  eddies,  the  ice-crystal  shoots ; 

And,  longing  for  light,  under  wind-driven  heaps, 

Round  the  boles  of  the  pine-wood  the  ground- 
laurel  creeps, 

Unkissed  of  the  sunshine,  unbaptized  of  show 
ers, 

With  buds  scarcely  swelled,  which  should  burst 
into  flowers  ! 

We  wait  for  thy  coming,  sweet  wind  of  the 
south  I 

For  the  touch  of  thy  light  wings,  the  kiss  of  thy 
mouth ; 

For  the  yearly  evangel  thou  bearest  from  God, 

Resurrection  and  life  to  the  graves  of  the  sod ! 

Up  our  long  river-valley,   for  days,   have    not 


The  wail  and  the  shriek  of  the  bitter  north 
east, — 

Raw  and  chill,  as  if  winnowed  through  ices  and 
snow, 

All  the  way  from  the  land  of  the  wild  Esqui 
mau,— 

Until  all  our  dreams  of  the  land  of  the  blest, 

Like  that  red  hunter's,  turn  to  the  sunny  south 
west. 

O  soul  of  the  spring-time,  its  light  and  its 
breath, 

Bring  warmth  to  this  coldness,  bring  life  to  this 
death  ;> 

Renew  the  great  miracle  ;  let  us  behold 

The  stone  from  the  mouth  of  the  sepulchre 
rolled, 

And  Nature,  like  Lazarus,  rise,  as  of  old  ! 

Let  our  faith,  which  in  darkness  and  coldness 
has  lain, 

Revive  with  the  warmth  and  the  brightness 
again, 

And  in  blooming  of  flower  and  budding  of  tree 

The  symbols  and  types  of  our  destiny  see ; 

The  life  of  the  spring-time,  the  life  of  the  whole, 

And,  as  sun  to  the  sleeping  earth,  love  to  the 
soul! 


126 


STANZAS  FOE  THE  TIMES.— A  SABBATH  SCENE. 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 

1850.      * 

THE  evil  days  have  come, — the  poor 

Are  made  a  prey  ; 
Bar  up  the  hospitable  door, 
Put  out  the  fire-lights,  point  no  more 

The  wanderer's  way. 

For  Pity  now  is  crime ;  the  chain 

Which  binds  our  States 
Is  melted  at  her  hearth  in  twain, 
Is  rusted  by  her  tears'  soft  rain : 

Close  up  her  gates. 

Our  Union,  like  a  glacier  stirred 

By  voice  below, 

Or  bell  of  kine,  or  wing  of  bird, 
A  beggar's  crust,  a  kindly  word 

May  overthrow ! 

Poor,  whispering  tremblers  ! — yet  we  boast 

Our  blood  and  name  ; 
Bursting  its  century -bolted  frost, 
Each  gray  cairn  on  the  Northman's  coast 

Cries  out  for  shame  ! 

0  for  the  open  firmament, 

The  prairie  free, 
The  desert  hillside,  cavern-rent, 
The  Pawnee's  lodge,  the  Arab's  tent, 

The  Bushman's  tree  ! 

Than  web  of  Persian  loom  most  rare, 

Or  soft  divan, 

Better  the  rough  rock,  bleak  and  bare, 
Or  hollow  tree,  which  man  may  share 

With  suffering  man. 

1  hear  a  voice  :  "  Thus  saith  the  Law, 

Let  Love  be  dumb  ; 
Clasping  her  liberal  hands  in  awe, 
Let  sweet-lipped  Charity  withdraw 

From  hearth  and  home. " 

I  hear  another  voice :   u  The  poor 

Are  thine  to  feed  ; 
Turn  not  the  outcast  from  thy  door, 
Nor  give  to  bonds  and  wrong  once  more 

Whom  God  hath  freed." 

Dear  Lord  !  between  that  law  and  thee 

No  choice  remains ; 
Yet  not  untrue  to  man's  decree, 
Though  spurning  its  rewards,  is  he 

Who  bears  its  pains. 

Not  mine  Sedition's  trumpet-blast 

And  threatening  word ; 
I  read  the  lesson  of  the  Past, 
That  firm  endurance  wins  at  last 

More  than  the  sword. 

O  clear-eyed  Faith,  and  Patience,  thou 

So  calm  and  strong  ! 

Lend  strength  to  weakness,  teach  us  how 
The  sleepless  eyes  of  God  look  through 

This  night  of  wrong  ! 


A  SABBATH  SCENE. 

SCARCE  had  the  solemn  Sabbath-bell 
Ceased  quivering  in  the  steeple, 

Scarce  had  the  parson  to  his  desk 
Walked  stately  through  his  people, 


When  down  the  summer-shaded  street 

A  wasted  female  figure, 
With  dusky  brow  and  naked  feet, 

Came  rushing  wild  and  eager. 

She  saw  the  white  spire  through  the  trees, 
She  heard  the  sweet  hymn  swelling  ; 

0  pitying  Christ  !  a  refuge  give 
That  poor  one  in  thy  dwelling ! 

Like  a  scared  fawn  before  the  hounds, 

Right  up  the  aisle  she  glided, 
While  close  behind  her,  whip  in  hand, 

A  lank-haired  hunter  strided. 

She  raised  a  keen  and  bitter  cry, 
To  Heaven  and  Earth  appealing  ; — 

Were  manhood's  generous  pulses  dead  ? 
Had  woman's  heart  no  feeling  ? 

A  score  of  stout  hands  rose  between 

The  hunter  and  the  flying : 
Age  clenched  his  staff,  and  maiden  eyes 

Flashed  tearful,  yet  defying. 

"  Who  dares  profane  this  house  and  day  ?  " 

Cried  out  the  angry  pastor. 
"  Why,  bless  your  soul,  the  wench  's  a  slave, 

And  I  'm  her  lord  and  master ! 

u  I  've  law  and  gospel  on  my  side, 
And  who  shall  dare  refuse  me  ?  " 

Down  came  the  parson,  bowing  low, 
"  My  good  sir,  pray  excuse  me  ! 

"  Of  course  I  know  your  right  divine 
To  own  and  work  and  whip  her ; 

Quick,  deacon,  throw  that  Polyglott 
Before  the  wench,  and  trip  her  !  " 

Plump  dropped  the  holy  tome,  and  o'er 

Its  sacred  pages  stumbling, 
Bound  hand  and  foot,  a  slave  once  more, 

The  hapless  wretch  lay  trembling. 

1  saw  the  parson  tie  the  knots, 
The  while  his  flock  addressing, 

The  Scriptural  claims  of  slavery 
With  text  on  text  impressing. 

''Although,"  said  he,  "on  Sabbath  day 

All  secular  occupations 
Are  deadly  sins,  we  must  fulfil 

Our  moral  obligations : 

"And  this  commends  itself  as  one 

To  every  conscience  tender  ; 
As  Paul  sent  back  Onesimus, 

My  Christian  friends,  we  send  her  !  " 

Shriek  rose  on  shriek,— the  Sabbath  air 

Her  wild  cries  tore  asunder ; 
I  listened,  with  hushed  breath,  to  hear 

God  answering  with  his  thunder ! 

All  still !— the  very  altar's  cloth 

Had  smothered  down  her  shrieking, 

And,  dumb,  she  turned  from  face  to  face, 
For  human  pity  seeking  ! 

I  saw  her  dragged  along  the  aisle, 
Her  shackles  harshly  clanking ; 

I  heard  the  parson,  over  all, 
The  Lord  devoutly  thanking  ! 

My  brain  took  fire  :  "  Is  this,"  I  cried, 
"The  end  of  prayer  and  preaching? 

Then  down  with  pulpit,  down  with  priest, 
And  give  us  Nature's  teaching  ! 


REMEMBRANCE. 


127 


I  saw  her  dragged  along  the  aisle." 


"Foul  shame  and  scorn  be  on  ye  all 

Who  turn  the  good  to  evil, 
And  steal  the  Bible  from  the  Lord, 

To  give  it  to  the  Devil ! 

41  Than  garbled  text  or  parchment  law 

I  own  a  statute  higher  ; 
And  God  is  true,  though  every  book 

And  every  man 's  a  fiar  !  " 

Just  then  I  felt  the  deacon's  hand 
In  wrath  my  coat-tail  seize  on  ; 

I  heard  the  priest  cry,  "  Infidel !  " 
The  lawyer  mutter,  "  Treason  !  " 

I  started  up, — where  now  were  church, 
Slave,  master,  priest,  and  people  ? 

I  only  heard  the  supper-bell, 
Instead  of  clanging  steeple. 

But,  on  the  open  window's  sill, 

O'er  which  the  white  blooms  drifted, 

The  pages  of  a  good  old  Book 
The  wind  of  summer  lifted, 

And  flower  and  vine,  like  angel  wings 

Around  the  Holy  Mother, 
Waved  softly  there,  as  if  God's  truth 

And, Mercy  kissed  each  other. 

And  freely  from  the  cherry-bough 
Above  the  casement  swinging, 

With  golden  bosom  to  the  sun, 
The  oriole  was  singing. 

As  bird  and  flower  made  plain  of  old 

The  lesson  of  the  Teacher, 
So  now  I  heard  the  written  Word 

Interpreted  by  Nature ! 


For  to  my  ear  methonght  the  breeze 
Bore  Freedom's  blessed  word  on  ; 

THUS  SAITH  THE  LORD  :  BREAK  EVERY  YOKE, 
UNDO  THE  HEAVY  BURDEN  ! 


REMEMBRANCE. 

WITH  COPIES  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  WRITINGS. 

FRIEND  of  mine  !  whose  lot  was  cast 
With  me  in  the  distant  past, — 
Where,  like  shadows  flitting  fast, 

Fact  and  fancy,  thought  and  theme, 
Word  and  work,  begin  to  seem 
Like  a  half -remembered  dream  ! 

Touched  by  change  have  all  things  been, 
Yet  I  think  of  thee  as  when 
We  had  speech  of  lip  and  pen. 

For  the  calm  thy  kindness  lent 
To  a  path  of  discontent, 
Rough  with  trial  and  dissent ; 

Gentle  words  where  such  were  few, 
Softening  blame  where  blame  was  true, 
Praising  where  small  praise  was  due ; 

For  a  waking  dream  made  good, 

For  an  ideal  understood, 

For  thy  Christian  womanhood ; 

For  thy  marvellous  gift  to  cull 
From  our  common  life  and  dull 
Whatsoe  'er  is  beautiful ; 


128 


THE  POOR  VOTER  ON  ELECTION  DAY.— TRUST.— KATHLEEN. 


Thoughts  and  fancies,  Hybla's  bees 
Dropping  sweetness  ;  true  heart's-ease 
Of  congenial  sympathise ; — 

Still  for  these  I  own  my  debt ; 
Memory,  with  her  eyelids  wet, 
Fain  would  thank  thee  even  yet ! 

And  as  one  who  scatters  flowers 
Where  the  Queen  of  May's  sweet  hours 
Sits,  o'ertwined  with  blossomed  bowers, 

In  superfluous  zeal  bestowing 
Gifts  where  gifts  are  overflowing, 
So  I  pay  the  debt  I  'm  owing. 

To  thy  full  thoughts,  gay  or  sad, 
Sunny-hued  or  sober  clad, 
Something  of  my  own  I  add  ; 

Well  assured  that  thou  wilt  take 
Even  the  offering  which  I  make 
Kindly  for  the  giver's  sake. 


THE  POOR  VOTER  ON  ELECTION  DAY. 

THE  proudest  now  is  but  my  peer, 

The  highest  not  more  high  ; 
To-day,  of  all  the  weary  year, 

A  king  of  men  am  I. 
To-day,  alike  are  great  and  small, 

The  nameless  and  the  known ; 
My  palace  is  the  people's  hall, 

The  ballot-box  my  throne  ! 

Who  serves  to-day  upon  the  list 

Beside  the  served  shall  stand  ; 
Alike  the  brown  and  wrinkled  fist, 

The  gloved  and  dainty  hand  ! 
The  rich  is  level  with  the  poor, 

The  weak  is  strong  to-day  ; 
And  sleekest  broadcloth  counts  no  more 

Than  homespun  frock  of  gray. 

To-day  let  pomp  and  vain  pretence 

My  stubborn  right  abide ; 
I  set  a  plain  man's  common  sense 

Against  the  pedant's  pride. 
To-day  shall  simple  manhood  try 

The  strength  of  gold  and  land  ; 
The  wide  world  has  not  wealth  to  buy 

The  power  in  my  right  hand  ! 

While  there  's  a  grief  to  seek  redress, 

Or  balance  to  adjust, 
Where  weighs  our  living  manhood  less 

Than  Mammon's  vilest  dust, — 
While  there  's  a  right  to  need  my  vote, 

A  wrong  to  sweep  away, 
Up  !  clouted  knee  and  ragged  coat  ! 

A  man  's  a  man  to-day  ! 


TRUST. 

THE  same  old  baffling  questions  !  O  my  friend, 
I  cannot  answer  them.     In  vain  I  send 
My  soul  into  the  dark,  where  never  burn 

The  lamps  of  science,  nor  the  natural  light 
Of  Reason's  sun  and  stars  !     I  cannot  learn 
Their  great  and  solemn  meanings,  nor  discern 
The  awful  secrets  of  the  eyes  which  turn 
Evermore  on  us  through  the  day  and  night 
With  silent  challenge  and  a  dumb  deman 
Proffering  the  riddles  of  the  dread  unknow 


Like  the  calm  Sphinxes,  with  their  eyes  of  stone, 
Questioning  the  centuries  from  their  veils  of 
sand  ! 

I  have  no  answer  for  myself  or  thee, 

Save  that  I  learned  beside  my  mother's  knee ; 

k '  All  is  of  God  that  is,  and  is  to  be  ; 
And  God  is  good."     Let  this  suffice  us  still, 
Resting  in  childlike  trust  upon  his  will 

Who  moves  to  his  great  ends  unthwarted  by  the 
ill. 


KATHLEEN.58 

O  NORAH,  lay  your  basket  down, 

And  rest  your  weary  hand. 
And  come  and  hear  me  sing  a  song 

Of  our  old  Ireland. 

There  was  a  lord  of  Galaway, 

A  mighty  lord  was  he  ; 
And  he  did  wed  a  second  wife, 

A  maid  of  low  degree. 

But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  so,  in  evil  spite, 
She  baked  the  black  bread  for  his  kin, 

And  fed  her  own  with  white. 

She  whipped  the  maids  and  starved  the  kern, 

And  drove  away  the  poor  ; 
"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  "  the  old  lord  said, 

"I  rue  my  bargain  sore !  " 

This  lord  he  had  a  daughter  fair, 

Beloved  of  old  and  young, 
And  nightly  round  the  shealing-fires 

Of  her  the  gleeman  sung. 

"As  sweet  and  good  is  young  Kathleen 

As  Eve  before  her  fall  "  ; 
So  sang  the  harper  at  the  fair, 

So  harped  he  in  the  hall. 

u  O  come  to  me,  my  daughter  dear  ! 

Come  sit  upon  my  knee, 
For  looking  in  your  face,  Kathleen, 

Your  mother's  own  I  see  !  " 

He  smoothed  and  smoothed  her  hair  away, 

He  kissed  her  forehead  fair  ; 
"  It  is  my  darling  Mary's  brow, 

It  is  my  darling's  hair  !  " 

O,  then  spake  up  the  angry  dame, 

"  Get  up,  get  up,"  quoth  she, 
"I'll  sell  ye  over  Ireland, 

I  '11  sell  ye  o'er  the  sea  !  " 

She  clipped  her  glossy  hair  away, 
That  none  her  rank  might  know, 

She  took  away  her  gown  of  silk, 
And  gave  her  one  of  tow, 

And  sent  her  down  to  Limerick  town, 

And  to  a  seaman  sold 
This  daughter  of  an  Irish  lord 

For  ten  good  pounds  in  gold. 

The  lord  he  smote  upon  his  breast, 

And  tore  his  beard  so  gray  ; 
But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  so  she  had  her  way. 

Sure  that  same  night  the  Banshee  howled 

To  fright  the  evil  dame, 
And  fairy  folks,  who  loved  Kathleen, 

With  funeral  torches  came. 


KOSSUTH.— TO  MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER. 


129 


She  watched  them  glancing  through  the  trees, 

And  glimmering  down  the  hill ; 
They  crept  before  the  dead-vault  door, 

And  there  they  all  stood  still ! 

' '  Get  up,  old  man  !  the  wake-lights  shine  !  " 
u  Ye  murthering  witch,"  quoth  he, 

"  So  I'm  rid  of  your  tongue,  I  little  care 
If  they  shine  for  you  or  me. 

"  O,  whoso  brings  my  daughter  back, 

My  gold  and  land  shall  have  !  " 
0,  then  spake  up  his  handsome  page, 

u  No  gold  nor  land  I  crave  !          ' 
/ 
"  But  give  to  me  your  daughter  dear, 

Give  sweet  Kathleen  to  me, 
Be  she  on  sea  or  be  she  on  land, 

I  '11  bring  her  back  to  thee." 

uMy  daughter  is  a  lady  born, 

And  you  of  low  degree, 
But  she  shall  be  your  bride  the  day 

You  bring  her  back  to  me." 

He  sailed  east,  he  sailed  west, 

And  far  and  long  sailed  he, 
Until  he  came  to  Boston  town, 

Across  the  great  salt  sea. 

u  O,  have  ye  seen  the  young  Kathleen, 

The  flower  of  Ireland  ? 
Ye  '11  know  her  by  her  eyes  so  blue, 

And  by  her  snow-white  hand  !  " 

Out  spake  an  ancient  man,   "  I  know 

The  maiden  whom  ye  mean  ; 
I  bought  her  of  a  Limerick  man, 

And  she  is  called  Kathleen. 

"  No  skill  hath  she  in  household  work, 

Her  han  Is  are  soft  and  white, 
Yet  well  by  loving  looks  and  ways 

She  doth  her  cost  requite." 

So  up  they  walked  through  Boston  town, 

And  met  a  maiden  fair, 
A  little  basket  on  her  arm 

So  snowy-white  and  bare. 

"  Come  hither,  child,  and  say  hast  thou 

This  young  man  ever  seen  ?  " 
They  wept  within  each  other's  arms, 

T  he  page  and  young  Kathleen. 

"  O  give  to  me  this  darling  child, 

And  take  my  purse  of  gold." 
"Nay,  not  by  me,"  her  master  said, 

"  Shall  sweet  Kathleen  be  sold. 

"We  loved  her  in  the  place  of  one 

The  Lord  hath  early  ta'en  ; 
But,  since  her  heart 's  in  Ireland, 

We  give  her  back  again  !  " 

O,  for  that  same  the  saints  in  heaven 

For  his  poor  soul  shall  pray, 
And  Mary  Mother  wash  with  tears 

His  heresies  away. 

Sure  now  they  dwell  in  Ireland, 

As  you  go  up  Claremore 
Ye  '11  see  their  castle  looking  down 

The  pleasant  Galway  shore. 

And  the  old  lord's  wife  is  dead  and  gone, 

And  a  happy  man  is  he, 
For  he  sits  beside  his  own  Kathleen, 

With  her  darling  on  his  knee. 


FIRST-DAY  THOUGHTS. 

IN  calm  and  cool  and  silence,  once  again 
I  find  my  old  accustomed  place  among 
My  brethren,  where,  perchance,  no  human 

tongue 

Shall  utter  words  ;  where  never  hymn  is  sung, 
Nor  deep-toned  organ  blown,  nor  censer  swung, 

Nor  dim  light  falling  through  the  pictured  pane  ! 

There,  syllabled  by  silence,  let  me  hear 

The  still  small  voice  which  reached  the  prophet's 
ear; 

Read  in  my  heart  a  still  diviner  law 

Than  Israel's  leader  on  his  tables  saw  ! 

There  let  me  strive  with  each  besetting  sin, 
Recall  my  wandering  fancies,  and  restrain 
The  sore  disquiet  of  a  restless  brain  ; 
And,  as  the  path  of  duty  is  made  plain, 

May  grace  be  given  that  I  may  walk  therein, 
Not  like  the  hireling,  for  his  selfish  gain, 

With  backward  glances  and  reluctant  tread, 

Making  a  merit  of  his  coward  dread, — 

But,  cheerful,  in  the  light  around  me  thrown, 
Walking  as  one  to  pleasant  service  led ; 
Doing  God's  will  as  if  it  were  my  own, 

Yet  trusting  not  in  mine,  but  in  his  strength 
alone  T 


KOSSUTH.  59 

TYPE  of  two  mighty  continents  ! — combining 

The  strength  of  Europe  with  the  warmth  and 

glow 
Of  Asian  song  and  prophecy, — the  shining 

Of  Orient  splendors  over  Northern  snow ! 
Who  shall  receive  him  ?  Who,  unblushing,  speak 
Welcome  to  him,  who,  while  he  strove  to  break 
The  Austrian  yoke  from  Magyar  necks,  smote  off 
At  the  same  blow  the  fetters  of  the  serf, — 
Rearing  the  altar  of  his  Father-land 

On  the  firm  base  of  freedom,  and  thereby 
Lifting  to  Heaven  a  patriot's  stainless  hand, 

Mocked  not  the  God  of  Justice  with  a  lie  ! 
Who  shall  be  Freedom '  s  mouth-piece  ?    Who  shall 

give 

Her  welcoming  cheer  to  the  great  fugitive  ? 
Not  he  who,  all  her  sacred  trusts  betraying, 

Is  scourging  back  to  slavery's  hell  of  pain 

The  swarthy  Kossuths  of  our  land  again  ! 
Not  he  whose  utterance  now  from  lips  designed 
The  bugle-march  of  Liberty  to  wind, 
And  call  her  hosts  beneath  the  breaking  light, — 
The  keen  reveille  of  her  morn  of  fight,— 

Is  but  the  hoarse  note  of  the  bloodhound's  bay 
ing, 
The  wolf's    long    howl    behind    the  bondman's 

flight ! 
O  for  the  tongue  of  him  who  lies  at  rest 

In  Quincy's  shade  of  patrimonial  trees, — 
Last  of  the  Puritan  tribunes  and  the  best, — 

To  lend  a  voice  to  Freedom's  sympathies, 
And  hail  the  coming  of  the  noblest  guest 
The  Old  World's  wrong  has  given  the  New  World 
of  the  West ! 


TO  MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER. 

AN     EPISTLE      NOT      AFTER       THE       MANNER      OF. 
HORACE. 

OLD  friend,  kind  friend  !  lightly  down 
Drop  time's  snow-flakes  on  thy  crown  ! 
Never  be  thy  shadow  less, 
Never  fail  thy  cheerfulness ; 


130 


TO  MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER. 


Care,  that  kills  the  cat,*may  plough 
Wrinkles  in  the  miser's  brow, 
Deepen  envy's  spiteful  frown, 
Draw  the  mouths  of  bigots  down, 
Plague  ambition's  dream,  and  sit 
Heavy  on  the  hypocrite, 
Haunt  the  rich  man's  door,  and  ride 
In  the  gilded  coach  of  pride ; — 
Let  the  fiend  pass  ! — what  can  he 
Find  to  do  with  such  as  thee  ? 
Seldom  comes  that  evil  guest 
Where  the  conscience  lies  at  rest, 
And  brown  health  and  quiet  wit 
Smiling  on  the  threshold  sit. 

I,  the  urchin  unto  whom, 
In  that  smoked  and  dingy  room, 
Where  the  district  gave  thee  rule 
O'er  its  ragged  winter  school, 
Thou  didst  teach  the  mysteries 
Of  those  weary  A  B  C's,— 
Where,  to  fill  the  every  pause 
Of  thy  wise  and  learned  saws, 
Through  the  cracked  and  crazy  wall 
Came  the  cradle-rock  and  squall, 
And  the  goodman's  voice,  at  strife 
With  his  shrill  and  tipsy  wife, — 
Luring  us  by  stories  old, 
With  a  comic  unction  told, 
More  than  by  the  eloquence 
Of  terse  birchen  arguments 
(Doubtful  gain,  I  fear),  to  look 
With  complacence  on  a  book  ! — 
Where  the  genial  pedagogue 
Half  forgot  his  rogues  to  flog, 
Citing  tale  or  apologue, 
Wise  and  merry  in  its  drift 
As  old  Phsedrus'  twofold  gift, 
Had  the  little  rebels  known  it, 
Risum  et  prudentiam  monet! 
I, — the  man  of  middle  years, 
In  whose  sable  locks  appears 
Many  a  warning  fleck  of  gray, — 
Looking  back  to  that  far  day, 
And  thy  primal  lessons,  feel 
Grateful  smiles  my  lips  unseal, 
As,  remembering  thee,  I  blend 
Olden  teacher,  present  friend, 
Wise  with  antiquarian  search, 
In  the  scrolls  of  State  and  Church  : 
Named  on  history's  title-page, 
Parish-clerk  and  justice  sage; 
For  the  ferule's  wholesome  awe 
Wielding  now  the  sword  of  law. 

Threshing  Time's  neglected  sheaves, 
Gathering  up  the  scattered  leaves 
Which  the  wrinkled  sibyl  cast 
Careless  from  her  as  she  passed, — 
Twofold  citizen  art  thou, 
Freeman  of  the  past  and  now. 
He  who  bore  thy  name  of  old 
Midway  in  the  heavens  did  hold 
Over  Gibeon  moon  and  sun  ; 
Thou  hast  bidden  them  backward  run ; 
Of  to-day  the  present  ray 
Flinging  over  yesterday  ! 

Let  the  busy  ones  deride 
What  I  deem  of  right  thy  pride  : 
Let  the  fools  their  tread-mills  grind, 
Look  not  forward  nor  behind, 
Shuffle  in  and  wriggle  out, 
Veer  with  every  breeze  about, 
Turning  like  a  windmill  sail, 
Or  a  dog  that  seeks  his  tail ; 
Let  them  laugh  to  see  thee  fast 
Tabernacled  in  the  Past, 
Working  out  with  eye  and  lip, 
Riddles  of  old  penmanship, 


Patient  as  Belzoni  there 
Sorting  out,  with  loving  care, 
Mummies  of  dead  questions  stripped 
From  their  sevenfold  manuscript ! 

Dabbling,  in  their  noisy  way, 

In  the  puddles  of  to-day, 

Little  know  they  of  that  vast 

Solemn  ocean  of  the  past, 

On  whose  margin,  wreck-bespread, 

Thou  art  walking  with  the  dead, 

Questioning  the  stranded  years, 

Waking  smiles,  by  turns,  and  tears, 

As  thou  callest  up  again 

Shapes  the  dust  has  long  o'erlain, — 

Fair-haired  woman,  bearded  man, 

Cavalier  and  Puritan ; 

In  an  age  whose  eager  view 

Seeks  but  present  things,  and  new, 

Mad  for  party,  sect  and  gold, 

Teaching  reverence  for  the  old. 

On  that  shore,  with  fowler's  tact, 

Coolly  bagging  fact  on  fact, 

Naught  amiss  to  thee  can  float, 

Tale,  or  song,  or  anecdote  ; 

Village  gossip,  centuries  old, 

Scandals  by  our  grandams  told, 

What  the  pilgrim's  table  spread, 

Where  he  lived,  and  whom  he  wed, 

Long-drawn  bill  of  wine  and  beer 

For  his  ordination  cheer, 

Or  the  flip  that  wellnigh  made 

Glad  his  funeral  cavalcade  ; 

Weary  prose,  and  poet's  lines, 

Flavored  by  their  age,  like  wines 

Eulogistic  of  some  quaint, 

Doubtful,  puritanic  saint ; 

Lays  that  quickened  husking  jigs, 

Jests  that  shook  grave  periwigs, 

When  the  parson  had  his  jokes 

And  his  glass,  like  other  folks  ; 

Sermons  that,  for  mortal  hours, 

Taxed  our  fathers'  vital  powers, 

As  the  long  nineteenthlies  poured 

Downward  from  the  sounding-board, 

And,  for  fire  of  Pentecost, 

Touched  their  beards  December's  frost. 

Time  is  hastening  on,  and  we 
What  our  father's  are  shall  be,— 
Shadow-shapes  of  memory  ! 
Joined  to  that  vast  multitude 
Where  the  great  are  but  the  good, 
And  the  mind  of  strength  shall  prove 
Weaker  than  the  heart  of  love  ; 
Pride  of  graybeard  wisdom  less 
Than  the  infant's  guilelessness. 
And  his  song  of  sorrow  more 
Than  the  crown  the  Psalmist  wore ! 
Who  shall  then,  with  pious  zeal, 
At  our  moss-grown  thresholds  kneel, 
From  a  stained  and  stony  page 
Reading  to  a  careless  age, 
With  a  patient  eye  like  thine, 
Prosing  tale  and  limping  line, 
Names  and  words  the  hoary  rime 
Of  the  Past  has  made  sublime  ? 
Who  shall  work  for  us  as  well 
The  antiquarian's  miracle  ? 
Who  to  seeming  life  recall 
Teacher  grave  and  pupil  small  ? 
Who  shall  give  to  thee  and  me 
Freeholds  in  futurity  ? 

Well,  whatever  lot  be  mine, 
Long  and  happy  days  be  thine, 
Ere  thy  full  and  honored  age 
Dates  of  time  its  latest  page  ! 
Squire  for  master,  State  for  school, 


THE  PANORAMA. 


131 


Wisely  lenient,  live  and  rule  ; 
Over  grown-up  knave  and  rogue 
Play  the  watchful  pedagogue  ; 
Or,  "while  pleasure  smiles  on  duty, 
At  the  call  of  youth  and  beauty, 
Speak  for  them  the  spell  of  law 
Which  shall  bar  and  bolt  withdraw. 
And  the  flaming^  sword  remove 
From  the  Paradise  of  Love. 
Still,  with  undimmed  eyesight,  pore 
Ancient  tome  and  record  o'er; 
Still  thy  week-day  lyrics  croon, 
Pitch  in  church  the  Sunday  tune, 
Showing  something,  in  thy  part, 
Of  the  old  Puritanic  art, 
Singer  after  Sternhold's  heart  ! 
In  thy  pew,  for  many  a  year, 
Homilies  from  Oldbug  hear,60 
Who  to  wit  like  that  of  South, 


And  the  Syrian's  golden  mouth, 
Doth  the  homely  pathos  add 
Which  the  pilgrim  preachers  had  ; 
Breaking,  like  a  child  at  play 
Gilded  idols  of  the  day, 
Cant  of  knave  and  pomp  of  fool 
Tossing  with  his  ridicule, 
Yet,  in  earnest  or  in  jest, 
Ever  keeping  truth  abreast, 
And,  when  thou  art  called,  at  last, 
To  thy  townsmen  of  the  past, 
Not  as  stranger  shalt  thou  come  ; 
Thou  shalt  find  thyself  at  home  ! 
With  the  little  and  the  big, 
Woollsn  cap  and  periwig, 
Madam  in  her  high-laced  ruff, 
Goody  in  her  home-made  stuff, — 
Wise  and  simple,  rich  and  poor, 
Thou  hast  known  them  all  before  ! 


THE  PANOKAMA, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


1856. 


THE  PANORAMA. 

"  A  !  fredome  is  a  nobill  thing  ! 
Fredome  mayse  man  to  half  liking. 
Fredome  all  solace  to  man  giffls ; 
He  levys  at  ese  that  f rely  levys ! 
A  nobil  hart  may  haif  nane  ese 
Na  ellys  nocht  that  may  him  plese 
G-yfE  Fredome  failythe." 

AKCHDEACON  BARBOUE. 

THROUGH  the  long  hall  the  shuttered  windows 

shed 

A  dubious  light  on  every  upturned  head, — 
On  locks  like  those  of  Absalom  the  fair, 
On  the  bald  apex  ringed  with  scanty  hair, 
On  blank  indifference  and  on  curious  stare ; 
On  the  pale  Showman  reading  from  his  stage 
The  hieroglyphics  of  that  facial  page  ; 
Half  sad,  half  scornful,  listening  to  the  bruit 
Of  restless  cane-tap  and  impatient  foot, 
And  the  shrill  call,  across  the  generaldin, 
41  Roll  up  your  curtain  !     Let  the  show  begin  !  " 

At  length  a  murmur  like  the  winds  that  break 
Into  green  waves  the  prairie's  grassy  lake, 
Deepened  and  swelled  to  music  clear  and  loud, 
And,  as  the  west-wind  lifts  a  summer  cloud, 
The  curtain  rose,  disclosing  wide  and  far 
A  green  land  stretching  to  the  evening  star, 
Fair  rivers,  skirted  by  primeval  trees 
And  flowers  hummed  over  by  the  desert  bees) 
Marked  by  tall  bluffs  whose  slopes  of  greenness 

show 

Fantastic  outcrops  of  the  rock  below, — 
The  slow  result  of  patient  Nature's  pains, 
And  plastic  fingering  of  her  sun  and  rains, — 
Arch,    tower,   and   gate,   grotesquely  windowed 

hall, 

And  long  escarpment  of  half-crumbled  wall, 
Huger  than  those  which,   from  steep    hills  of 

vine, 
Stare  through  their  loopholes  on   the  travelled 

.     Rhine ; 

Suggesting  vaguely  to  the  gazer's  mind 
A  fancy,  idle  as  the  prairie  wind, 


Of  the  land's  dwellers  in  an  age  unguessed, — 
The  unsung  Jotuns  of  the  mystic  West. 

Beyond,  the  prairie's  sea-like  swells  surpass 
The  Tartar's  marvels  of  his  Land  of  Grass, 
Vast  as  the  sky  against  whose  sunset  shores 
Wave  after  wave  the  billowy  greenness  pours  ; 
And,  onward  still,  like  islands  in  that  main 
Loom    the    rough    peaks  of    many  a  mountain 

chain, 

Whence  east  and  west  a  thousand  waters  run 
From  winter  lingering  under  summer's  sun. 
And,  still  beyond,  long  lines  of  foam  and  sand 
Tell  where  Pacific  rolls  his  waves  aland, 
From  many  a  wide-lapped  port  and  land-locked 

bay, 

Opening  with  thunderous  pomp  the  world's  high 
way 
To  Indian  isles  of  spice,  and  marts  of  far  Cathay. 

"Such,"  said  the  Showman,  as  the  curtain  fell, 
"  Is  the  new  Canaan  of  our  Israel, — 
The  land  of  promise  to  the  swarming  North, 
Which,  hive-like,  sends  its  annual  surplus  forth, 
To  the  poor  Southron  on  his  worn-out  soil, 
Scathed  by  the  curses  of  unnatural  toil ; 
To  Europe's  exiles  seeking  home  and  rest, 
And  the  lank  nomads  of  the  wandering  West, 
Who,  asking  neither,  in  their  love  of  change 
And  the  free  bison's  amplitude  of  range, 
Rear  the  log-hut,  for  present  shelter  meant, 
Not  future  comfort,  like  an  Arab's  tent." 

Then  spake  a  shrewd  on-looker,  ' '  Sir, "  said  he, 
"I  like  your  picture,  but  I  fain  would  see 
A  sketch  of  what  your  promised  land  will  be 
When,  with  electric  nerve,  and  fiery-brained, 
With  Nature's  forces  to  its  chariot  chained, 
The  future  grasping,  by  the  past  obeyed, 
The  twentieth  century  rounds  a  new  decade." 

Then    said  the  Showman,   sadly:    "He  who 

grieves 

Over  the  scattering  of  the  sibyl's  leaves 
Unwisely  mourns.     Suffice  it,  that  we  know 
What  needs  must  ripen  from  the  seed  we  sow  ; 


132 


THE  PANORAMA. 


That  present  time  is  but  the  mould  wherein 

We  cast  the  shapes  of  holiness  and  sin. 

A  painful  watcher  of  the  passing  hour, 

Its  lust  of  gold,  its  strife  for  place  and  power ; 

Its  lack  of  manhood,  honor,  reverence,  truth, 

Wise-thoughted  age,  and  generous-hearted  youth  ; 

Nor  yet  unmindful  of  each  better  sign, — 

The  low,  far  lights,  which  on  th'  horizon  shine, 

Like  those  which  sometimes  tremble  on  the  rim 

Of  clouded  skies  when  day  is  closing  dim, 

Flashing  athwart  the  purple  spears  of  rain 

The  hope  of  sunshine  on  the  hills  again  :— 

I  need  no  prophet's  word,  nor  shapes  that  pass 

Like  clouding  shadows  o'er  a  magic  glass  ; 

For  now,  as  ever,  passionless  and  cold, 

Doth  the  dread  angel  of  the  future  hold 

Evil  and  good  before  us,  with  no  voice 

Or  warning  look  to  guide  us  in  our  choice  ; 

With    spectral  hands  outreaching  through  the 

gloom 

The  shadowy  contrasts  of  the  coming  doom. 
Transferred  from  these,  it  now  remains  to  give 
The  sun  and  shade  of  Fate's  alternative." 

Then,  with  a  burst  of  music,  touching  all 
The  keys  of  thrifty  life,— the  millstream's  fall, 
The  engine's  pant  along  its  quivering  rails, 
The  anvil's  ring,  the  measured  beat  of  flails, 
The  sweep  of  scythes,  the  reaper's  whistled  tune, 
Answering  the  summons  of  the  bells  of  noon, 
The  woodman's  hail  along  the  river  shores, 
The  steamboat's  signal,  and  the  dip  of  oars, — 
Slowly  the  curtain  rose  from  off  a  land 
Fair  as  God's  garden.     Broad  on  either  hand 
The  golden  wheat-fields  glimmered  in  the  sun, 
And  the  tall  maize  its  yellow  tassels  spun . 
Smooth  highways  set  with    hedge-rows    living 

green, 

With  steepled  towns  through  shaded  vistas  seen, 
The  school-house  murmuring  with  its  hive-like 

swarm, 
The    brook-bank  whitening  in    the  grist-mill's 

storm, 
The    painted  farm-house   shining  through    the 

leaves 

Of  fruited  orchards  bending  at  its  eaves, 
Where  live  again,  around  the  Western  hearth, 
The  homely  old-time  virtues  of  the  North  ; 
Where  the  blithe  housewife  rises  with  the  day, 
And  well-paid  labor  counts  his  task  a  play, 
And,  grateful  tokens  of  a  Bible  free, 
And  the  free  Gospel  of  Humanity, 
Of  diverse  sects  and  differing  names  the  shrines, 
One  in  their  faith,  whate'er  their  outward  signs, 
Like  varying  strophes  of  the  same  sweet  hymn 
From  many  a  prairie's  swell  and  river's  brim, 
A  thousand  church-spires  sanctify  the  air 
Of  the  calm  Sabbath,  with  their  sign  of  prayer. 

Like  sudden  nightfall  over  bloom  and  green 
The  curtain  dropped  :  and,  momently,  between 
The  clank  of  fetter  and  the  crack  of  thong, 
Half  sob,  half  laughter,  music  swept  along, — 
A  strange  refrain,  whose  idle  words  and  low, 
Like  drunken  mourners,  kept  the  time  of  woe  ; 
As  if  the  revellers  at  a  masquerade 
Heard  in  the  distance  funeral  inarches  played. 
Such  music,  dashing  all  his  smiles  with  tears, 
The  thoughtful  voyager  on  Ponchartrain  hears, 
Where,   through  the  noonday  dusk  of  wooded 

shores 

The  negro  boatman,  singing  to  his  oars, 
With  a  wild  pathos  borrowed  of  his  wrong 
Redeems  the  jargon  of  his  senseless  song. 
u  Look,"  said  the  Showman,  sternly,  as  he  rolled 
His  curtain  upward ;  "  Fate's  reverse  behold  !  " 

A  village  straggling  in  loose  disarray 
Of  vulgar  newness,  premature  decay; 


A  tavern,  crazy  with  its  whiskey  brawls, 

With  u  Slaves  at  Auction  !  "  garnishing  its  walls. 

Without,  surrounded  by  a  motley  crowd, 

The  shrewd-eyed  salesman,  garrulous  and  loud, 

A  squire  or  colonel  in  his  pride  of  place, 

Known  at  free  fights,  the  caucus,  and  the  race, 

Prompt  to  proclaim  his  honor  without  blot, 

And  silence  doubters  with  a  tevi-pace  shot, 

Mingling  the  negro-driving  bully's  rant 

With  pious  phrase  and  democratic  cant, 

Yet  never  scrupling,  with  a  filthy  jest, 

To  sell  the  infant  from  its  mother's  breast, 

Break  through  all  ties  of  wedlock,  home,  and  kin, 

Yield  shrinking  girlhood  up  to  graybeard  sin  ; 

Sell  all  the  virtues  with  his  human  stock, 

The  Christian  graces  on  his  auction-block, 

And  coolly  count  on  shrewdest  bargains  driven 

In  hearts  regenerate,  and  in  souls  forgiven  ! 

Look  once  again  !     The  moving  canvas  shows 
A  slave  plantation's  slovenly  repose, 
Where,  in  rude  cabins  rotting  midst  their  weeds, 
The  human  chattel  eats,  and  sleeps,  and  breeds  ; 
And,  held  a  brute,  in  practice,  as  in  law, 
Becomes  in  fact  the  thing  he 's  taken  for. 
There,  early  summoned  to  the  hemp  and  corn, 
The  nursing  mother  leaves  her  child  new-born ; 
There  haggard  sickness,  weak  and  deathly  faint, 
Crawls  to  his  task,  and  fears  to  make  complaint ; 
And  sad-eyed  Rachels,  childless  in  decay, 
Weep  for  their  lost  ones  sold  and  torn  away  ! 
Of  ampler  size  the  master's  dwelling  stands, 
In  shabby  keeping  with  his  half-tilled  lands, — 
The  gates  unhinged,  the  yard  with  weeds  unclean, 
The  cracked  veranda  with  a  tipsy  lean. 
Without,  loose-scattered  like  a  wreck  adrift, 
Signs  of  misrule  and  tokens  of  unthrift ; 
Within,  profusion  to  discomfort  joined, 
The  listless  body  and  the  vacant  mind ; 
The  fear,  the  hate,  the  theft  and  falsehood,  born 
In  menial  hearts  of  toil,  and  stripes,  and  scorn  ! 
There,  all  the  vices,  which,  like  birds  obscene, 
Batten  on  slavery  loathsome  and  unclean, 
From  the  foul  kitchen  to  the  parlor  rise, 
Pollute  the  nursery  where  the  child-heir  lies, 
Taint  infant  lips  beyond  all  after  cure, 
With  the  fell  poison  of  a  breast  impure ; 
Touch  boyhood's  passions  with  the   breath   of 

flame, 
From    girlhood's    instincts    steal   the    blush    of 

shame. 

So  swells,  from  low  to  high,  from  weak  to  strong, 
The  tragic  chorus  of  the  baleful  wrong  ; 
Guilty  or  guiltless,  all  within  its  range 
Feel  the  blind  justice  of  its  sure  revenge. 

Still  scenes  like  these  the  moving  chart  reveals. 
Up  the  long  western  steppes  the  blighting  steals ; 
Down  the  Pacific  slope  the  evil  Fate 
Glides  like  a  shadow  to  the  Golden  Gate : 
From  sea  to  sea  the  drear  eclipse  is  thrown, 
From    sea    to  sea    the    Mauvaises    Terres   have 

grown, 
A  belt  of  curses  on  the  New  World's  zone  ! 

The  curtain  fell.  All  drew  a  freer  breath, 
As  men  are  wont  to  do  when  mournful  death 
Is  covered  from  their  sight.  The  Showman 

stood 

With  drooping  brow  in  sorrow's  attitude 
One  moment,  then  with  sudden  gesture  shook 
His  loose  hair  back,  and  with  the  air  and  look 
Of  one  who  felt,  beyond  the  narrow  stage 
And  listening  group,  the  presence  of  the  age, 
And  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  things  to  be, 
Poured  out  his  soul  in  earnest  words  and  free. 

"  O  friends  !  "  he  said,  "in  this  poor  trick  of 

paint 
You  see  the  semblance,  incomplete  and  faint, 


THE  PANORAMA. 


133 


Of  the  two-fronted  Future,  which,  to-day, 
Stands  dim  and  silent,  waiting  in  your  way. 
To-day,  your  servant,  subject  to  your  will ; 
To-morrow,  master,  or  for  good  or  ill. 
If  the  dark  face  of  Slavery  on  you  turns, 
If  the  mad  curse  its  paper  barrier  spurns, 
If  the  world  granary  of  the  West  is  made 
The  last  foul  market  of  the  slaver's  trade, 
Why  rail  at  fate  ?     The  mischief  is  your  own. 
Why  hate  your  neighbor  ?      Blame    yourselves 
alone  ! 

"Men  of  the  North  !     The  South  you  charge 

with  wrong 

Is  weak  and  poor,  while  you  ara  rich  and  strong. 
If  questions, — idle  and  absurd  as  those 
The  old-time  monks  and  Paduan  doctors  chose, — 
Mere  ghosts  of  questions,  tariffs,  and  dead  banks, 
And  scarecrow  pontiffs,  never  broke  your  ranks, 
Your  thews  united  could,  at  once,  roll  back 
The  jostled  nation  to  its  primal  track. 
Nay,  were  you  simply  steadfast,  manly,  just, 
True  to  the  faith  your  fathers  left  in  trust, 
If  stainless  honor  outweighed  in  your  scale 
A  codfish  quintal  or  a  factorjr  bale, 
Full  many  a  noble  heart,  (and  such  remain 
In  all  the  South,  like  Lot  in  Siddim's  plain, 
Who  watch  and  wait,   and    from    the  wrong's 

control 

Keep  white  and  pure  their  chastity  of  soul, ) 
Now  sick  to  loathing  of  your  weak  complaints, 
Your  tricks  as  sinners,  and  your  prayers  as  saints, 
Would  half-way  meet  the  frankness  of  your  tone, 
And  feel  their  pulses  beating  with  your  own. 

"The  North  !  the  South  !  no  geographic  line 
Can  fix  the  boundary  or  the  point  define, 
Since  each  with  each  so  closely  interblends, 
Where  Slavery  rises,  and  where  Freedom  ends. 
Beneath  your  rocks  the  roots,  far-reaching,  hide 
Of  the  fell  Upas  on  the  Southern  side  ; 
The  tree  whose  branches  in  your  north-winds 

wave 
Dropped  its  young  blossoms  on  Mount  Vernon's 

grave; 

The  nursling  growth  of  Monticello's  crest 
Is  now  the  glory  of  the  free  Northwest ; 
To  the  wise  maxims  of  her  olden  school 
Virginia  listened  from  thy  lips,  Rantoul ; 
Seward's  words  of  power,  and  Stunner's  fresh  re 
nown, 

Flow  from  the  pen  that  Jefferson  laid  down  ! 
And  when,  at  length,  her  years  of  madness  o'er, 
Like  the  crowned  grazer  on  Euphrates'  shore, 
From  her  long  lapse  to  savagery,  her  mouth 
Bitter  with  baneful  herbaga,  turns  the  South, 
Resumes  her  old  attire,  and  seeks  to  smooth 
Her  unkempt  tresses  at  the  glass  of  truth, 
Her  early  faith  shall  find  a  tongue  again, 
New  Wythes  and  Pinckneys  swell  that  old  refrain, 
Her  sons  with  yours  renew  the  ancient  pact, 
The  myth  of  Union  prove  at  last  a  fact ! 
Then,  if  one  murmur  mars  the  wide  content, 
Some  Northern  lip  will  drawl  the  last  dissent, 
Some  Union-saving  patriot  of  your  own 
Lament  to  find  his  occupation  gone. 

"  Grant  that  the  North  is  insulted,  scorned,  be 
trayed, 

O'erreached  in  bargains  with  her  neighbor  made, 
When  selfish  thrift  and  party  held  the  scales 
For  peddling  dicker,  not  for  honest  sales, — 
Whom  shall  we  strike  ?     Who  most  deserves  our 

blame  ? 

The  braggart  Southron,  open  in  his  aim, 
And  bold  as  wicked,  crashing  straight  through  all 
Tnat  bars  his  purpose,  like  a  cannon-ball  ? 
O  •  the  mean  traitor,  breathing  northern  air, 
With  nasal  speech  and  puritanic  hair, 


Whose  cant  the  loss  of  principle  survives, 
As  the  mud-turtle  e'en  its  head  outlives  ; 
Who,  caught,  chin-buried  in  some  foul  offence, 
Puts  on  a  look  of  injured  innocence, 
And  consecrates  his  baseness  to  the  cause 
Of  constitution,  union,  and  the  laws  V 

"Praise  to  the  place-man  who  can  hold  aloof 
His  still  unpurchased  manhood,  office-proof ; 
Who  on  his  round  of  duty  walks  erect, 
And  leaves  it  only  rich  in  self-respect, — 
As  MOKE  maintained  his  virtue's  lofty  port 
In  the  Eighth  Henry's  base  and  bloody  court. 
But,  if  exceptions  here  and  there  are  found, 
Who  tread  thus  safely  on  enchanted  ground, 
The  normal  type,  the  fitting  symbol  still 
Of  those  who  fatten  at -the  public  mill, 
Is  the  chained  dog  beside  his  master's  door, 
Or  CIRCE'S  victim,  feeding  on  all  four  ! 

"  Give  me  the  heroes  who,  at  tuck  of  drum, 
Salute  thy  staff,  immortal  Quattlebum  ! 
Or  they  who,  doubly  armed  with  vote  and  gun, 
Following  thy  lead,  illustrious  Atchison, 
Their  drunken  franchise  shift  from  scene  to  scene. 
As  tile-beard  Jourdan  did  his  guillotine  ! — 
Rather  than  him  who,  born  beneath  our  skies, 
To  Slavery's  hand  its  supplest  tool  supplies, — 
The  party  felon  whose  unblushing  face 
Looks  from  the  pillory  of  his  bribe  of  place, 
And  coolly  makes  a  merit  of  disgrace, — 
Points  to  the  footmarks  of  indignant  scorn, 
Shows  the  deep  scars  of  satire's  tossing  horn  ; 
And  passes  to  his  credit  side  the  sum 
Of  all  that  makes  a  scoundrel's  martyrdom  ! 

"Bane  of  the  North,  its  canker  and  its  moth  ! — 
These  modern  Esaus,  bartering  rights  for  broth  ! 
Taxing  our  justice,  with  their  double  claim, 
As  fools  for  pity,  and  as  knaves  for  blame  ; 
Who,  urged  by  party,  sect,  or  trade,  within 
The  fell  embrace  of  Slavery's  sphere  of  sin, 
Part  at  the  outset  with  their  moral  sense, 
The  watchful  angel  set  for  Truth's  defence  ; 
Confound  all  contrasts,  good  and  ill ;  reverse 
The  poles  of  life,  its  blessing  and  its  curse  ; 
And  lose  thenceforth  from  their  perverted  sight 
The  eternal  difference  'twixt  the  wrong  and  right ; 
To  them  the  Law  is  but  the  iron  span 
That  girds  the  ankles  of  imbruted  man  ; 
To  them  the  Gospel  has  no  higher  aim 
Than  simple  sanction  of  the  master's  claim, 
Dragged  in  the  slime  of  Slavery's  loathsome  trail, 
Like  Chalier's  Bible  at  his  ass's  tail ! 

"  Such  are  the  men  who,  with  instinctive  dread, 
Whenever  Freedom  lifts  her  drooping  head, 
Make  prophet-tripods  of  their  office-stools, 
And  scare  the  nurseries  and  the  village  schools 
With  dire  presage  of  ruin  grim  and  great, 
A  broken  Union  and  a  foundered  State  ! 
Such  are  the  patriots,  self -bound  to  the  stake 
Of  office,  martyrs  for  their  country's  sake : 
Who  fill  themselves  the  hungry  jaws  of  Fate, 
And  by  their  loss  of  manhood  save  the  State. 
In  the  wide  gulf  themselves  like  Curtius  throw, 
And  test  the  virtues  of  cohesive  dough  ; 
As  tropic  monkeys,  linking  heads  and  tails, 
Bridge  o'er  some  torrent  of  Ecuador's  vales  ! 

"Such  are  the  men  who  in  your  churches  rave 
To  swearing-point,  at  mention  of  the  slave  ! 
When  some  poor  parson,  haply  unawares, 
Stammers  of  freedom  in  his  timid  prayers ; 
WTho,  if  some  foot-sore  negro  through  the  town 
Steals  northward,  volunteer  to  hunt  him  down. 
Or,  if  some  neighbor,  flying  from  disease, 
Courts  the  mild  balsam  of  the  Southern  breeze, 
With  hue  and  cry  pursue  him  on  his  track, 
And  write  Free-SoV.tr  on  the  poor  man's  back. 


134 


THE  PANORAMA. 


Such  are  the  men  who  leave  the  pedler's  cart, 
While  faring  South,  to  learn  the  driver's  art, 
Or,  in  white  neckcloth,  soothe  with  pious  aim 
The  graceful  sorrows  of  some  languid  dame, 
Who,  from  the  wreck  of  her  bereavement,  saves 
The  double  charm  of  widowhood  and  slaves  !  — 
Pliant  and  apt,  they  lose  no  chance  to  show 
To  what  base  depths  apostasy  can  go  ; 
Outdo  the  natives  in  their  readiness 
To  roast  a  negro,  or  to  mob  a  press  ; 
Poise  a  tarred  schoolmate  on  the  lyncher's  rail, 
Or  make  a  bonfire  of  their  birthplace  mail  ! 

"So  some  poor  wretch,  whose  lips  no  longer 

bear 

The  sacred  burden  of  his  mother's  prayer, 
By  fear  impelled,  or  lust  of  gold  enticed, 
Turns  to  the  Crescent  for  the  Cross  of  Christ, 
And,  over-acting  in  superfluous  zeal, 
Crawls  prostrate  where  the  faithful  only  kneel, 
Out-howls  the  Dervish,  hugs  his  rags  to  court 
The  squalid  Santon's  sanctity  of  dirt; 
And,  when  beneath  the  city  gateway's  span 
Files  slow  and  long  the  Meccan  caravan, 
And  through  its  midst,  pursued  by  Islam's  pray 

ers, 

The  prophet's  Word  some  favored  camel  bears, 
The  marked  apostate  has  his  place  assigned 
The  Koran-bearer's  sacred  rump  behind, 
With   brush   and   pitcher  following,  grave  and 

mute, 
In  meek  attendance  on  the  holy  brute  ! 


Yet  let  not  Passion  wrest  from  Reason's  hand 
The  guiding  rein  and  symbol  of  command. 
Blame  not  the  caution  proffering  to  your  zeal 
A  well-meant  drag  upon  its  hurrying  wheel; 
Nor  chide  the  man  whose  honest  doubt  extends 
To  the  means  only,  not  the  righteous  ends  ; 
Nor  fail. to  weigh  the  scruples  and  the  fears 
Of  milder  natures  and  serener  years. 
In  the  long  strife  with  evil  which  began 
!  With  the  first  lapse  of  new-created  man 
!  Wisely  and  well  has  Providence  assigned 
I  To  each  his  part, — some  forward,  some  behind; 
I  And  they,  too,  serve  who  temper  and  restrain 
The  o'er  warm  heart  that  sets  on  fire  the  brain. 
True  to  yourselves,  feed  Freedom's  altar-flame 
With  what  you  have ;  let  others  do  the  same. 
Spare  timid  doubters ;  set  like  flint  your  face 
Against  the  self -sold  knaves  of  gain  and  place  : 
Pity  the  weak ;  but  with  unsparing  hand 
Cast  out  the  traitors  who  infest  the  land, — 
From  bar,  press,  pulpit,  cast  them  everywhere, 
By  dint  of  fasting,  if  you  fail  by  prayer. 
And  in  their  place  bring  men  of  antique  mould, 
Like  the  grave  fathers  of  your  Age  of  Gold, — 
Statesmen  like  those  who  sought  the  primal  fount 
Of  righteous  law,  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount ; 
Lawyers  who  prize,  like  Quincy,  (to  our  day 
Still  spared,  Heaven  bless  him  !)  honor  more  than 

pay, 
And  Christian  jurists,  starry-pure,  like  Jay 


"  Men  of  the  North  !  beneath  your  very  eyes, 
By  hearth  and  home,  your  real  danger  lies. 
Still  day  by  day  some  hold  of  freedom  falls, 
traitors     fed     within 


The  right  of  Slavery  to  your  sons  to  teach, 
And    "South-side"    Gospels    in    your    pulpits 

preach, 
Transfix  the  Law  to  ancient  freedom  dear 


Preachers  like  Woolman,  or  like  them  who  bore 
The  faith  of  Wesley  to  our  Western  shore, 
And  held  no  convert  genuine  till  he  broke 
Alike  his  servants'  and  the  Devil's  yoke  ; 
And  priests  like  him  who  Newport's  market  trod, 
And  o'er  its  slave-ships  shook  the  bolts  of  God  ! 
Through    home-bred    traitors     fed    within    its  j  So  shall  your  power,  with  a  wise  prudence  used, 

walls. —  !  Strong  but  forbearing,  firm  but  not  abused, 

Men  whom  yourselves  with  vote  and  purse  sustain,  j  In  kindly  keeping  with  the  good  of  all, 
At  posts  of  honor,  influence,  and  gain  ;  j  The  nobler  maxims  of  the  past  recall, 

Her  natural  home-born  right  to  Freedom  give, 
And  leave  her  foe  his  robber -right, — to  live. 
Live,  as  the  snake  does  in  his  noisome  fen  ! 
Live,  as  the  wolf  does  in  his  bone-strewn  den  ! 
Live,  clothed  with  cursing  like  a  robe  of  flame, 
The  focal  point  of  million-fingered  shame  ! 
Live,  till  the  Southron,  who,  with  all  his  faults, 
Has  manly  instincts,  in  his  pride  revolts 

T-V      -t  *•  /Y»     i  •    -       •  Jlj-      J.T ~i~j 


On  the  sharp  point  of  her  subverted  spear, 
And  imitate  upon  her  cushion  plump 
The  mad  Missourian  lynching  from  his  stump  ; 
Or,  in  your  name,  upon  the  Senate's  floor 
Yield  up  to  Slavery  all  it  asks,  and  more ; 
And,  ere  your  dull  eyes  open  to  the  cheat, 
Sell  your  old  homestead  underneath  your  feet ! 
While  such  as  these  your  loftiest  outlooks  hold, 
While  truth  and  conscience  with  your  wares  are 

sold, 
While  grave-browed  merchants  band  themselves 

to  aid 

An  annual  man-hunt  for  their  Southern  trade, 
What  moral  power  within  your  grasp  remains 
To  stay  the  mischief  on  Nebraska's  plains  ? — 
High  as  the  tides  of  generous  impulse  flow, 
As  far  rolls  back  the  selfish  undertow  ; 
And  all  your  brave  resolves,  though  aimed  as  true 
As  the  horse-pistol  Balmawhapple  drew, 
To  Slavery's  bastions  lend  as  slight  a  shock 
As  the  poor  trooper's  shot  to  Sterling  rock  ! 

"Yet,  while  the  need  of  Freedom's  cause  de 
mands 

The  earnest  efforts  of  your  hearts  and  hands, 
Urged  by  all  motives  that  can  prompt  the  heart 
To  prayer  and  toil  and  manhood's  manliest  part ; 
Though  to  the  soul's  deep  tocsin  Nature  joins 
The  warning  whisper  of  her  Orphic  pines, 
The   north-wind's    anger,  and  the  south-wind's 

sigh, 

The  midnight  sword-dance  of  the  northern  sky, 
And,  to  the  ear  that  bends  above  the  sod 
Of  the  green  grave-mounds  in  the  Fields  of  God, 
In  low,  deep  murmurs  of  rebuke  or  cheer, 
The  land's  dead  fathers  speAk  their  hope  or  fear, 


Dashes   from  off   him,    midst    the    glad  world's 

cheers, 

The  hideous  nightmare  of  his  dream  of  years, 
And  lifts,    self-prompted,  with   his   own    right 

hand, 
The  vile  encumbrance  from  his  glorious  land  ! 

"So,  wheresoe'er  our  destiny  sends  forth 
Its  widening  circles  to  the  South  or  North, 
Where'er  our  banner  flaunts  beneath  the  stars 
Its  mimic  splendors  and  its  cloudlike  bars, 
There  shall  Free  Labor's  hardy  children  stand 
The  equal  sovereigns  of  a  slaveless  land. 
And  when  at  last  the  hunted  bison  tires, 
And  dies  o'ertaken  by  the  squatter's  fires  ; 
And  westward,  wave  on  wave,  the  living  flood 
Breaks  on  the  snow-line  of  majestic  Hood  ; 
And  lonely  Shasta  listening  hears  the  tread 
Of  Europe's  fair-haired  children,  Hesper-led  ; 
And,  gazing  downward  through  his  hoar-locks, 

sees 

The  tawny  Asian  climb  his  giant  knees, 
The  Eastern  sea  shall  hush  his  waves  to  hear 
Pacific's  surf-beat  answer  Freedom's  cheer, 
And  one  long  rolling  fire  of  triumph  run 
Between  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset  gun  !" 
My  task  is  done.     The  Showman  and  his  show, 
Themselves  but  shadows,  into  shadows  go  ; 
And,  if  no  song  of  idlesse  I  have  sung, 
Nor  tints  of  beauty  on  the  canvas  flung, — 
If  the  harsh  numbers  grate  on  tender  ears, 
And  the  rough  picture  overwrought  appears, — 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE. 


135 


With  deeper  coloring,  with  a  sterner  blast, 
Before  my  soul  a  voice  and  vision  passed, 
Such  as  might  Milton's  jarring  trump  require, 
Or  glooms  of  Dante  fringed  with  lurid  fire. 
O,  not  of  choice,  for  themes  of  public  wrong 
I  leave  the  green  and  pleasant  paths  of  song, — 
The  mild,  sweet  words  which  soften  and  adorn, 
For  griding  taunt  and  bitter  laugh  of  scorn. 
More  dear  to  me  some  song  of  private  worth, 
Some  homely  idyl  of  my  native  North, 
Some  summer  pastoral  of  her  inland  vales 
Or,  grim  and  weird,  her  winter  fireside  tales 
Haunted  by  ghosts  of  unreturning  sails, — 


Lost  barks  at  parting  hung  from  stem  to  helm 

With  prayers  of  love  like  dreams  on  Virgil's  elm. 

Nor  private  grief  nor  malice  holds  my  pen  ; 

I  owe  but  kindness  to  my  f  ellow-rnen  ; 

And,  South  or  North,  wherever  hearts  of  prayer 

Their  woes  and  weakness  to  our  Father  bear, 

Wherever  fruits  of  Christian  love  are  found 

In  holy  lives,  to  me  is  holy  ground. 

But  the  time  passes.     It  were  vain  to  crave 

A  late  indulgence.     What  I  had  I  gave. 

Forget  the  poet,  but  his  warning  heed, 

And  shame  his  poor  word  with  your  nobler  deed. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE. 

I.  NOON. 

WHITE  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the  deep, 
Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep  ! 

O  isles  of  calm  !— O  dark,  still  wood  ! 
And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude  ! 

O  shapes  and  hues,  dim  beckoning,  through 
Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  yiew 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue, 


To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land, 

And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland, 

And  skies, — the  hollow  of  God's  hand  ! 

Transfused  through  you,  O  mountain  friends  ! 
With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends, 
And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

I  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 
I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  I  am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 

I  lapse  into  the  glad  release 

Of  Nature's  own  exceeding  peace. 

O,  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind  ! 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind, 

So  fall  the  weary  years  away ; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 

This  western  wind  hath  Lethean  powers, 
Yon  noonday  cloud  nepenthe  showers, 
The  lake  is  white  with  lotus-flowers ! 

Even  Duty's  voice  is  faint  and  low, 

And  slumberous  Conscience,  waking  slow, 

Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 

The  Shadow  which  pursues  us  all, 
Whose  ever-nearing  steps  appall. 
Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  all, — 


That  Shadow  blends  with  mountain  gray, 
It  speaks  but  what  the  light  waves  say, — 
Death  walks  apart  from  Fear  to-day  ! 


Rocked  on  her  breast,  these  pines  and  I 
Alike  on  Nature's  love  rely  ; 
And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 

Assured  that  He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  his  creatures  wills, 

The  simple  faith  remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be, 
The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree. 


What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow, 
What  light  and  life  the  other  know, 
Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 

II.    EVENING. 

Yon  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night, 
While,  broad-orbed,  o'er  its  gleaming  crown, 

The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 
On  the  hushed  inland  sea  looks  down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles, 
Each  silver-hemmed  !     How  sharply  show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles, 
And  tree-tops  m  the  wave  below  ! 

How  far  and  strange  the  mountains  seem. 
Dim-looming  through  the  pale,  still  light ! 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 
They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,  lake,  wood,  and  peopled  vale, 
Hushed  by  that  presence  grand  and  grave, 

Are  silent,  save  the  cricket's  wail, 
And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 

Fair  scenes  !  whereto  the  Day  and  Night 

Make  rival  love,  I  leave  ye  soon, 
What  time  before  the  eastern  light 

The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  moon 

Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 
And  the  young  archer,  Morn,  shall  break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 
And,  golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake  ! 

Farewell !  around  this  smiling  bay 
Gay-hearted  Health,  and  Life  in  bloom, 

With  lighter  steps  than  mine,  may  stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave 
These  waters  and  these  hills  than  I : 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky ; 


136 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  THEBAID. 


How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay, 

Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 
And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day ; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy, 

Nor  full-pulsed  manhood,  lingering  here, 

Shall  add,  to  life's  abounding  joy, 
The  charmed  repose  to  suffering  dear. 

Still  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 

Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 
An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 

rough  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 


Forever  from  the  Hand  that  takes 
One  blessing  from  us  others  fall  ; 

And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 
His  perfect  recompense  to  all ! 

O,  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night, 
And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 
Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy  face, 

Lake  of  the  Northland  !  keep  thy  dower 
Of  beauty  still,  and  while  above 

Thy  solemn  mountains  speak  of  power, 
Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God's  love. 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  THEBAID. 

O  STRONG,  upwelling  prayers  of  faith, 
From  inmost  founts  of  life  ye  start, — 

The  spirit's  pulse,  the  vital  breath 
Of  soul  and  heart ! 

From  pastoral  toil,  from  traffic's  din, 
Alone,  in  crowds,  at  home,  abroad, 

Unheard  of  man,  ye  enter  in 
The  ear  of  God. 

Ye  brook  no  forced  and  measured  tasks, 
Nor  weary  rote,  nor  formal  chains  ; 

The  simple  heart,  that  freely  asks 
In  love,  obtains. 

For  man  the  living  temple  is  : 
The  mercy-seat  and  cherubim, 

And  all  the  holy  mysteries, 
He  bears  with  him. 

And  most  avails  the  prayer  of  love, 
Which,  wordless,  shapes  itself  in  deeds, 

And  wearies  Heaven  for  naught  above 
Our  common  needs. 

Which  brings  to  God's  all-perfect  will 
That  trust  of  his  undoubting  child 

Whereby  all  seeming  good  and  ill 
Are  reconciled. 

And,  seeking  not  for  special  signs 

Of  favor,  is  content  to  fall 
Within  the  providence  which  shines 

And  rains  on  all. 

Alone,  the  Thebaid  hermit  leaned 
At  noontime  o'er  the  sacred  word. 

Was  it  an  angel  or  a  fiend 
Whose  voice  he  heard  ? 

It  broke  the  desert's  hush  of  awe, 
A  human  utterance,  sweet  and  mild  ; 

And,  looking  up,  the  hermit  saw 
A  little  child. 


A  child,  with  wonder-widened  eyes, 
O'erawed  and  troubled  by  the  sight 

Of  hot,  red  sands,  and  brazen  skies, 
And  anchorite. 

"What  dost  thou  here,  poor  man  ?    No  shade 
Of  cool,  green  doums,  nor  grass,  nor  well, 

Nor  corn,  nor  vines."     The  hermit  said  : 
"With  God  I  dwell. 

"Alone  with  Him  in  this  great  calm, 

I  live  not  by  the  outward  sense  ; 
My  Nile  his  love,  my  sheltering  palm 

His  providence." 

The  child  gazed  round  him.     "  Does  God  live 
Here  only  ? — where  the  desert's  rim 

Is  green  with  corn,  at  morn  and  eve, 
We  pray  to  Him. 

"  My  brother  tills  beside  the  Nile 
His  little  field  :  beneath  the  leaves 

My  sisters  sit  and  spin  the  while, 
My  mother  weaves. 

"  And  when  the  millet's  ripe  heads  fall, 
And  all  the  bean-field  hangs  in  pod, 

My  mother  smiles,  and  says  that  all 
Are  gifts  from  God. 

"  And  when  to  share  our  evening  meal, 
She  calls  the  stranger  at  the  door, 

She  says  God  fills  the  hands  that  deal 
Food  to  the  poor." 

Adown  the  hermit's  wasted  cheeks 
Glistened  the  flow  of  human  tears  ; 

"  Dear  Lord  !  "  he  said,  "thy  angel  speaks, 
Thy  servant  hears." 

Within  his  arms  the  child  he  took, 
And  thought  of  home  and  life  with  men ; 

And  all  his  pilgrim  feet  forsook 
Returned  again. 

The  palmy  shadows  cool  and  long, 

The  eyes  that  smiled  through  lavish  locks, 

Home's  cradle-hymn  and  harvest  song, 
And  bleat  of  flocks. 

"  O  child  !  "  he  said,  "thou  teachest  me 
There  is  no  place  where  God  is  not ; 

That  love  will  make,  where'er  it  be, 
A  holy  spot. " 

He  rose  from  off  the  desert  sand, 
And,  leaning  on  his  staff  of  thorn, 

Went,  with  the  young  child,  hand-in-hand, 
Like  night  with  morn. 

They  crossed  the  desert's  burning  line, 
And  heard  the  palm-tree's  rustling  fan, 

The  Nile-bird's  cry,  the  low  of  kine, 
And  voice  of  man. 

Unquestioning,  his  childish  guide 
He  followed  as  the  small  hand  led 

To  where  a  woman,  gentle-eyed, 
Her  distaff  fed. 

She  rose,  she  clasped  her  truant  boy, 
She  thanked  the  stranger  with  her  eyes. 

The  hermit  gazed  in  doubt  and  joy 
And  dumb  surprise. 

And  lo  !— with  sudden  warmth  and  light 
A  tender  memory  thrilled  his  frame; 

New-born,  the  world-lost  anchorite 
A  man  became. 


BURNS. 


137 


;  Scottish  maid  and  lover.' 


"  O  sister  of  El  Zara's  race, 

Behold  me  ! — had  we  not  one  mother  ?  " 
She  gazed  into  the  stranger's  face  ; — 

"  Thou  art  my  brother  ?  " 

"  O  kin  of  blood  !— Thy  life  of  use 
And  patient  trust  is  more  than  mine  ; 

And  wiser  than  the  gray  recluse 
This  child  of  thine. 

"For,  taught  of  him  whom  God  hath  sent, 
That  toil  is  praise,  and  love  is  prayer, 

I  come,  life's  cares  and  pains  content 
With  thee  to  share." 

Even  as  his  foot  the  threshold  crossed, 
The  hermit's  better  life  began ; 

Its  holiest  saint  the  Thebaid  lost, 
And  found  a  man  ! 


BURNS. 

ON  RECEIVING  A  SPRIG  OF  HEATHER  IN 
BLOSSOM. 

No  more  these  simple  flowers  belong 

To  Scottish  maid  and  lover  ; 
Sown  in  the  common  soil  of  song, 

They  bloom  the  wide  world  over. 

In  smiles  and  tears,  in  sun  and  showers, 

The  minstrel  and  the  heather, 
The  deathless  singer  and  the  flowers 

He  sang  of  live  together. 

Wild  heather-bells  and  Robert  Burns  ! 

The  moorland  flower  and  peasant ! 
How,  at  their  mention,  memory  turns 

Her  pages  old  and  pleasant  !* 


The  gray  sky  wears  again  its  gold 

And  purple  of  adorning, 
And  manhood's  noonday  shadows  hold 

The  dew  of  boyhood's  morning. 

The  dews  that  washed  the  dust  and  soil 

From  off  the  wings  of  pleasure, 
The  sky,  that  flecked  the  ground  of  toil 

With  golden  threads  of  leisure. 

I  call  to  mind  the  summer  day, 

The  early  harvest  mowing, 
The  sky  with  sun  and  cloud  at  play, 

And  flowers  with  breezes  blowing. 

I  hear  the  blackbird  in  the  corn, 

The  locust  in  the  haying ; 
And,  like  the  fabled  hunter's  horn, 

Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 

How  oft  that  day,  with  fond  delay, 

I  sought  the  maple's  shadow, 
And  sang  with  Burns  the  hours  away, 

Forgetful  of  the  meadow  ! 

Bees  hummed,  birds  twittered,  overhead 

1  heard  the  squirrels  leaping, 
The  good  dog  listened  while  I  read, 

And  wagged  his  tail  in  keeping. 

I  watched  him  while  in  sportive  mood 
I  read  "  The  Twa  Doy*1 "  story, 

And  half  believed  he  understood 
The  poet's  allegory. 

Sweet  day.  sweet  songs  ! — The  golden  hours 
Grew  brighter  for  that  singing, 

From  brook  and  bird  and  meadow  flowers 
A  dearer  welcome  bringing. 


138 


BURNS.— WILLIAM  FORSTER. 


New  light  on  home-seen  Nature  beamed, 

New  glory  over  Woman  ; 
And  daily  life  and  duty  seemed 

No  longer  poor  and  common. 

I  woke  to  find  the  simple  truth 

Of  fact  and  feeling  better 
Than  all  the  dreams  that  held  my  youth 

A  still  repining  debtor  : 

That  Nature  gives  her  handmaid,  Art, 
The  themes  of  sweet  discoursing ; 

The  tender  idyls  of  the  heart 
In  every  tongue  rehearsing. 

Why  dream  of  lands  of  gold  and  pearl, 

Of  loving  knight  and  lady, 
When  farmer  boy  and  barefoot  girl 

Were  wandering  there  already  ? 

I  saw  through  all  familiar  things 

The  romance  underlying ; 
The  joys  and  griefs  that  plume  the  wings 

Of  Fancy  skyward  flying. 

I  saw  the  same  blithe  day  return, 

The  same  sweet  fall  of  even, 
That  rose  on  wooded  Craigie-burn, 

And  sank  on  crystal  Devon. 

I  matched  with  Scotland's  heathery  hills 
The  sweetbrier  and  the  clover  ; 

With  Ayr  and  Doon,  my  native  rills, 
Their  wood-hymns  chanting  over. 

O'er  rank  and  pomp,  as  he  had  seen, 

I  saw  the  Man  uprising ; 
No  longer  common  or  unclean, 

The  child  of  God's  baptizing  ! 

With  clearer  eyes  I  saw  the  worth 

Of  life  among  the  lowly  ; 
The  Bible  at  his  Cotter's  hearth 

Had  made  my  own  more  holy. 

And  if  at  times  an  evil  strain, 

To  lawless  love  appealing, 
Broke  in  upon  the  sweet  refrain 

Of  pure  and  healthful  feeling, 

It  died  upon  the  eye  and  ear, 

No  inward  answer  gaining ; 
No  heart  had  I  to  see  or  hear 

The  discord  and  the  staining. 

Let  those  who  never  erred  forget 
His  worth,  in  vain  bewailings  ; 

Sweet  Soul  of  Song  ! — I  own  my  debt 
Uncancelled  by  his  failings  ! 

Lament  who  will  the  ribald  line 
Which  tells  his  lapse  from  duty, 

How  kissed  the  maddening  lips  of  wine 
Or  wanton  ones  of  beauty ; 

But  think,  while  falls  that  shade  between 

The  erring  one  and  Heaven, 
That  he  who  loved  like  Magdalen, 

Like  her  may  be  forgiven. 

Not  his  the  song  whose  thunderous  chime 

Eternal  echoes  render. — 
The  mournful  Tuscan's  haunted  rhyme, 

And  Milton's  starry  splendor  ! 

But  who  his  human  heart  has  laid 

To  Nature's  bosom  nearer  ? 
Who  sweetened  toil  like  him,  or  paid 

To  love  a  tribute  dearer  ? 


Through  all  his  tuneful  art,  how  strong 

The  human  feeling  gushes  ! 
The  very  moonlight  of  his  song 

Is  warm  with  smiles  and  blushes  ! 

Give  lettered  pomp  to  teeth  of  Time, 
So  "  Bonnie  Doon  "  but  tarry  ; 

Blot  out  the  Epic's  stately  rhyme, 
But  spare  his  Highland  Mary  ! 


WILLIAM  FORSTER" 

THE  years  are  many  since  his  hand 

Was  laid  upon  my  head, 
Too  weak  and  young  to  understand 

The  serious  words  he  said. 

Yet  often  now  the  good  man's  look 

Before  me  seems  to  swim, 
As  if  some  inward  feeling  took 

The  outward  guise  of  him. 

As  if,  in  passion's  heated  war, 
Or  near  temptation's  charm, 

Through  him  the  low-voiced  monitor 
Forewarned  me  of  the  harm. 

Stranger  and  pilgrim  ! — from  that  day 

Of  meeting,  first  and  last, 
Wherever  Duty's  pathway  lay, 

His  reverent  steps  have  passed. 

The  poor  to  feed,  the  lost  to  seek, 

To  proffer  life  to  death, 
Hope  to  the  erring, — to  the  weak 

The  strength  of  his  own  faith. 

To  plead  the  captive's  right ;  remove 
The  sting  of  hate  from  Law ; 

And  soften  in  the  fire  of  love 
The  hardened  steel  of  War. 

He  walked  the  dark  world,  in  the  mild, 

Still  guidance  of  the  Light ; 
In  tearful  tenderness  a  child, 

A  strong  man  in  the  right. 

From  what  great  perils,  on  his  way, 
He  found,  in  prayer,  release  ; 

Through  what  abysmal  shadows  lay 
His  pathway  unto  peace, 

God  knoweth :  we  could  only  see 
The  tranquil  strength  he  gained  ; 

The  bondage  lost  in  liberty, 
The  fear  in  love  unfeigned. 

And  I, — my  youthful  fancies  grown 

The  habit  of  the  man, 
Whose  field  of  life  by  angels  sown 

The  wilding  vines  o'erran, — 

Low  bowed  in  silent  gratitude, 

My  manhood's  heart  enjoys 
That  reverence  for  the  pure  and  good 

Which  blessed  the  dreaming  boy's. 

Still  shines  the  light  of  holy  lives 
Like  star-beams  over  doubt ; 

Each  sainted  memory,  Christlike,  drives 
Some  dark  possession  out. 

O  friend  !  O  brother  !  not  in  vain 

Thy  life  so  calm  and  true, 
The  silver  dropping  of  the  rain, 

The  fall  of  summer  dew  ! 


RANTOUL.— THE  DREAM  OF  PIO  NONO. 


139 


How  many  burdened  hearts  have  prayed 
Their  lives  like  thine  might  be  ! 

But  more  shall  pray  henceforth  for  aid 
To  lay  them  down  like  thee. 

With  weary  hand,  yet  steadfast  will, 

In  old  age  as  in  youth, 
Thy  Master  found  thee  sowing  still 

The  good  seed  of  his  truth. 

As  on  thy  task-field  closed  the  day 

In  golden-skied  decline, 
His  angel  met  thee  on  the  way, 

And  lent  his  arm  to  thine. 

Thy  latest  care  for  man, — thy  last 
Of  eartxily  thought  a  prayer, — 

O,  who  thy  mantle,  backward  cast, 
Is  worthy  now  to  wear  ? 

Methinks  the  mound  which  marks  thy  bed 
Might  bless  our  land  and  save, 

As  rose,  of  old,  to  life  the  dead 
Who  touched  the  prophet's  grave  ! 


RANTOUL.62 

ONE  day,  along  the  electric  wire 
His  manly  word  for  Freedom  sped  ; 

We  came  next  morn  :  that  tongue  of  fire 
Said  only,  1 1  He  who  spake  is  dead  !  " 

Dead  !  while  his  voice  was  living  yet, 
In  echoes  round  the  pillared  dome  ! 

Dead  !  while  his  blotted  page  lay  wet 
With  themes  of  state  and  loves  of  home  ! 

Dead  !  in  that  crowning  grace  of  time, 
That  triumph  of  life's  zenith  hour  ! 

Dead  !  while  we  watched  his  manhood's  prime 
Break  from  the  slow  bud  into  flower  ! 

Dead  !  he  so  great,  and  strong,  and  wise, 
While  the  mean  thousands  yet  drew  breath ; 

How  deepened,  through  that  dread  surprise, 
The  mystery  and  the  awe  of  death  ! 

From  the  high  place  whereon  our  votes 
Had  borne  him,  clear,  calm,  earnest,  fell 

His  first  words,  like  the  prelude  notes 
Of  some  great  anthem  yet  to  swell. 

We  seemed  to  see  our  flag  unfurled, 
Our  champion  waiting  in  his  place 

For  the  last  battle  of  the  world,— 
The  Armageddon  of  the  race. 

Through  him  we  hoped  to  speak  the  word 
Which  wins  the  freedom  of  a  land ; 

And  lift,  for  human  right,  the  sword 

Which  dropped  from  Hampden's  dying  hand. 

For  he  had  sat  at  Sidney's  feet, 

And  walked  with  Pym  and  Vane  apart ; 

And,  through  the  centuries,  felt  the  beat 
Of  Freedom's  march  in  Cromwell's  heart. 

He  knew  the  paths  the  worthies  hel  i, 
Where  England's  best  and  wisest  trod  ; 

And,  lingering,  drank  the  springs  that  welled 
Beneath  the  touch  of  Milton's  rod. 

No  wild  enthusiast  of  the  right, 

Self -poised  and  clear,  he  showed  alway 

The  coolness  of  his  northern  night, 
The  ripe  repose  of  autunn's  day. 


His  step  was  slow,  yet  forward  still 

He  pressed  where  others  paused  or  failed ; 

The  calm  star  clomb  with  constant  will,  — 
The  restless  meteor  flashed  and  paled  ! 

Skilled  in  its  subtlest  wile,  he  knew 
And  owned  the  higher  ends  of  Law  ; 

Still  rose  majestic  on  his  view 
The  awful  Shape  the  schoolman  saw. 

Her  home  the  heart  of  God  ;  her  voice 

The  choral  harmonies  whereby 
The  stars,  through  all  their  spheres,  rejoice, 

The  rhythmic  rule  of  earth  and  sky  ! 

We  saw  his  great  powers  misapplied 
To  poor  ambitions  ;  yet,  through  all, 

We  saw  him  take  the  weaker  side, 

And  right  the  wronged,  and  free  the  thralL 

Now,  looking  o'er  the  frozen  North, 
For  one  like  him  in  word  and  act, 

To  call  her  old,  free  spirit  forth, 
And  give  her  faith  the  life  of  fact,  — 

To  break  her  party  bonds  of  shame, 

And  labor  with  the  zeal  of  him 
To  make  the  Democratic  name 

Of  Liberty  the  synonyme,  — 

We  sweep  the  land  from  hill  to  strand, 
We  seek  the  strong,  the  wise,  the  brave, 

And,  sad  of  heart,  return  to  stand 
In  silence  by  a  new-made  grave  ! 

There,  where  his  breezy  hills  of  home 
Look  out  upon  his  sail-white  seas, 

The  sounds  of  winds  and  waters  come, 
And  shape  themselves  to  words  like  these  : 

"  Why,  murmuring,  mourn  that  he,  whose  power 

Was  lent  to  Party  over-long, 
Heard  the  still  whisper  at  the  hour 

He  set  his  foot  on  Party  wrong  ? 

u  The  human  life  that  closed  so  well 

No  lapse  of  folly  now  can  stain  : 
The  lips  whence  Freedom's  protest  fell 

No  meaner  thought  can  now  profane. 

"  Mightier  than  living  voice  his  grave 

That  lofty  protest  utters  o'er ; 
Through  roaring  wind  and  smiting  wave 

It  speaks  his  hate  of  wrong  once  more. 

u  Men  of  the  North  !  your  weak  regret 

Is  wasted  here  ;  arise  and  pay 
To  freedom  and  to  him  your  debt, 

By  following  where  he  led  the  way  !  " 


THE  DREAM  OF  PIO  NONO. 

IT  chanced,   that  while   the  pious  troops  of 

France 

Fought  in  the  crusade  Pio  Nono  preached, 
What  time  the  holy  Bourbons  stayed  his  hands 
(The  Hur  and  Aaron  meet  for  such  a  Moses), 
Stretched  forth  from  Naples  towards  rebellious 

Rome 

To  bless  the  ministry  of  Oudinot, 
And  sanctify  his  iron  homilies 
And  sharp  persuasions  of  the  bayonet, 
That  the  great  pontiff  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed. 

He  stood  by  Lake  Tiberias,  in  the  sun 
Of  the  bright  Orient ;  and  beheld  the  lame, 


140 


TATTLER. 


The  sick,  and  blind,  kneel  at  the  Master's  feet, 
And  rise  up  whole.     And,  sweetly  over  all, 
Dropping  the  ladder  of  their  hymn  of  praise 
Prom  heaven  to  earth,  in  silver  rounds  of  song, 
He  heard  the  blessed  angels  sing  of  peace, 
Good- will  to  man,  and  glory  to  the  Lord. 

Then  one,  with  feet  unshod,  and  leathern  face 
Hardened  and  darkened  by  fierce  summer  suns 
And  hot  winds  of  the  deserb,  closer  drew 
His  fisher's  haick,  and  girded  up  his  loins, 
And  spake,  as  one  who  had  authority  : 
"  Come  thou  with  me." 

Lakeside  and  eastern  sky 
And  the  sweet  song  of  angels  passed  away, 
And,  with  a  dream's  alacrity  of  change, 
The  priest,  and  the  swart  fisher  by  his  side, 
Beheld  the  Eternal  City  lift  its  domes 
And  solemn  fanes  and  monumental  pomp 
Above  the  waste  Campagna.     On  the  hills 
The  blaze  of  burning  villas  rose  and  fell, 
And  momently  the  mortar's  iron  throat 
Roared  from  the  trenches  ;  and,  within  the  walls, 
Sharp  crash  of  shells,  low  groans  of  human  pain, 
Shout,  drum  beat,  and  the  clanging  larum-bell, 
And  tramp  of  hosts,  sent  up  a  mingled  sound, 
Half  wail  and  half  defiance.     As  they  passed 
The  gate  of  San  Pancrazio,  human  blood 
Flowed  ankle-high  about  them,  and  dead  men 
Choked  the  long  street  with  gashed  and  gory 

piles,—    . 

A  ghastly  barricade  of  mangled  flesh, 
From  which,  at  times,  quivered  a  living  hand, 
And  white  lips  moved  and  moaned.      A  father 

tore 

His  gray  hairs,  by  the  body  of  his  son, 
In  frenzy ;  and  his  fair  young  daughter  wept 
On  his  old  bosom.     Suddenly  a  flash 
Clove  the  thick  sulphurous  air,  and  man  and 

maid 
Sank,  crushed  and  mangled  by  the  shattering 

shell. 

Then  spake  the  Galilean  :  "  Thou  hast  seen 
The  blessed  Master  and  his  works  of  love ; 
Look  now  on  thine  !     Hear'st  thou  the  angels  sing 
Above  this  open  hell  ?     Thou  God's  high-priest ! 
Thou  the  Vicegerent  of  the  Prince  of  Peace  ! 
Ihou  the  successor  of  his  chosen  ones  ! 
I,  Peter,  fisherman  of  Galilee, 
In  the  dear  Master's  name,  and  for  the  love 
Of  his  true  Church,  proclaim  thee  Antichrist, 
Alien  and  separate  from  his  holy  faith, 
Wide  as  the  difference  between  death  and  life, 
The  hate  of  man  and  the  great  love  of  God  ! 
Hence,  and  repent !  " 

Thereat  the  pontiff  woke, 

Trembling,  and  muttering  o'er  his  fearful  dream. 
"  What  means  he  V  "  cried  the  Bourbon. 

"Nothing  more 

Than  that  your  majesty  hath  all  too  well 
Catered  for  your  good  guests,  and  that,  in  sooth, 
The  Holy  Father's  supper  trouble th  him," 
Said  Cardinal  Antonelli,  with  a  smile. 


And  as  he  walked  he  prayed.     Even  the  same 
;  Old  prayer  with  which,  for  half  a  score  of  years, 
|  Morning,  and  noon,  and  evening,  lip  and  heart 
I  Had  groaned  :   "  Have  pity  upon  me,  Lord  ! 
I  Thou  seest,  while  teaching  others,  I  am  blind. 
i  Send  me  a  man  who  can  direct  my  steps  !  " 

Then,  as  he  mused,  he  heard  along  his  path 
A  sound  as  of  an  old  man's  staff  among 
The  dry,  dead  linden-leaves  ;  and,  looking  up, 
He  saw  a  stranger,  weak,  and  poor,  and  old. 

"  Peace  be  unto  thee,  father  !  "  Tauler  said, 
u  God    give  thee   a  good  day  ! "     The  old  man 

raised 

Slowly  his  calm  blue  eyes.      "  I  thank  thee,  son ; 
But  all  my  days  are  good,  and  none  are  ill.  " 


TAULER. 

TAULER,  the  preacher,  walked,  one  autumn  day, 
Without  the  walls  of  Strasburg,  by  the  Rhine, 
Pondering  the  solemn  Miracle  of  Life  ; 
As  one  who,  wandering  in  a  starless  night, 
Feels,  momently,  the  jar  of  unseen  waves, 
And  hears  the  thunder  of  an  unknown  sea, 
Breaking  along  an  unimagined  shore. 


Wond 


thereat,  the  preacher  spake  again, 
The  old  man  smiled, 


Wondering  thereat,  the  p 
"God  give  thee  happy  life." 
"  I  never  am  unhappy." 


Tauler  laid 

His  hand  upon  the  stranger's  coarse  gray  sleeve  : 
"Tell    me,    O  father,    what  thy  strange  words 

mean. 

Surely  man's  days  are  evil,  and  his  life 
Sad  as  the  grave  it  leads  to.  "     "Nay,  my  son, 
Our  times  are  in  God's  hands,  and  all  our  days 
Are  as  our  needs  :  for  shadow  as  for  sun, 
For  cold  as  heat,  for  want  as  wealth,  alike 
Our  thanks  are  due,  since  that  is  best  which  is ; 
And  that  which  is  not,  sharing  not  his  life, 
Is  evil  only  as  devoid  of  good. 
And  for  the  happiness  of  which  I  spake 
I  find  in  it  submission  to  his  will, 
And  calm  trust  in  the  holy  Trinity 
Of  Knowledge,  Goodness,  and  Almighty  Power." 

Silently  wondering,  for  a  little  space, 
Stood  the  great  preacher  ;  then  he  spake  as  one 
Who,     suddenly     grappling    with     a     haunting 

thought 
Which  long  has  followed,  whispering  through  the 

dark 

Strange  terrors,  drags  it,  shrieking,  into  light : 
"  What  if    God's   will    consign    thee    hence    to 

Hell?" 

"  Then,"  said  the  stranger,  cheerily,  ube  it  so. 
What  Hell  may  be  I  know  not ;  this  I  know, — 
I  cannot  lose  the  presence  of  the  Lord : 
One  arm,  Humility,  takes  hold  upon 
His  dear  Humanity  ;  the  other,  Love, 
Clasps  his  Divinity.     So  where  I  go 
He  goes  ;  and  better  fire-walled  Hell  with  Him 
Than  golden-gated  Paradise  without." 

Tears  sprang  in  Tauler's  eyes.     A  sudden  light, 
Like  the  first  ray  which  fell  on  chaos,  clove 
Apart  the  shadow  wherein  he  had  walked 
Darkly  at  noon.     And,  as  the  strange  old  man 
Went  his  slow  way,  until  his  silver  hair 
Set  like  the  white  moon  where  the  hills  of  vine 
Slope  to  the  Rhine,  he  bowed  his  head  and  said  : 
"  My  prayer  is  answered.     God  hath  sent  the  man 
Long  sought,  to  teach  me,  by  his  simple  trust, 
Wisdom  the  weary  schoolmen  never  knew." 

So,  entering  with  a  changed  and  cheerful  step 
The  city  gates,  he  saw,  far  down  the  street, 
A  mighty  shadow  break  the  light  of  noon, 
Which  tracing  backward  till  its  airy  lines 
Hardened  to  stony  plinths,  he  raised  his  eyes 
O'er  broad  facade  and  lofty  pediment, 
O'er  architrave  and  frieze  and  sainted  niche, 
Up  the  stone  1  ice-work  chiselled  by  the  wise 
Erwin  of  Steinbach,  dizzily  up  to  where 
In    the    noon-brightness    the    great    Minster's 
tower, 


LINES.— THE  VOICES. 


141 


Jewelled  with  sunbeams  on  its  mural  crown, 
Rose  like  a  visible  prayer.      u  Behold  !  "  he  said, 
"The  stranger's  faith  made  plain  before  mine 

eyes. 

As  yonder  tower  outstretches  to  the  earth 
The  dark  triangle  of  its  shade  alone 
When  the  clear  day  is  shining  on  its  top, 
So,  darkness  in  the  pathway  of  Man's  life 
Is  but  the  shadow  of  God's  providence, 
By  the  great  Sun  of  Wisdom  cast  thereon  ; 
But  what  is  dark  below  is  light  in  Heaven." 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  READING  A  STATE  PAPER,  WHERE 
IN  THE  HIGHER  LAW  IS  INVOKED  TO  SUSTAIN 
THE  LOWER  ONE. 

A  PIOUS  magistrate  !  sound  his  praise  throughout 
The  wondering  churches.     Who  shall  henceforth 

doubt 
That    the    long-wished    millennium    draweth 

nigh  ? 
Sin  in  high  places  has  become  devout, 

Tithes  mint,  goes  painful-faced,  and  prays  its 

lie 
Straight  up  to  Heaven,  and  calls  it  piety  ! 

The  pirate,  watching  from  his  bloody  deck 
•  The  weltering  galleon,  heavy  with  the  gold 
Of  Acapulco,  holding  death  in  check 
While    prayers   are   said,   brows   crossed,    and 

beads  are  told, — 

The  robber,  kneeling  where  the  wayside  cross 
On  dark  Abruzzo  tails  of  life's  dread  loss 
From  his  own  carbine,  glancing  still  abroad 
For  some  new  victim,  offering  thanks  to  God  ! — 

Rome,  listening  at  her  altars  to  the  cry 
Of  midnight  Murder,  while  her  hounds  of  hell 
Scour   France,   from  baptized  cannon  and  holy 
bell 

And  thousand-throated  priesthood,  loud  and 
high, 

Pealing  Te  Deums  to  the  shuddering  sky, 

"  Thanks  to  the  Lord,  who  giveth  victory  !  " 
What  prove  these,   but  that  crime  was  ne'er  so 

black 

As  ghostly  cheer  and  pious  thanks  to  lack  ? 
Satan  is  modest.     At  Heaven's  door  he  lays 
His  evil  offspring,  and,  in  Scriptural  phrase 
And  saintly  posture,  gives  to  God  the  praise 
And  honor  of  the  monstrous  progeny. 
What  marvel,  then,  in  our  own  time  to  see 
His  old  devices,  smoothly  acted  o'er, — 
Official  piety,  locking  fast  the  door 
Of  Hope  against  three  million  souls  of  men, — 
Brothers,  God's  children,   Christ's   redeemed, — 

and  then, 

With  uprolled  eyeballs  and  on  bended  knee, 
Whining  a  prayer  for  help  to  hide  the  key  ! 


THE  VOICES. 

"•WHY  urge  the  long,  unequal  fight, 
Since  Truth  has  fallen  in  the  street, 

Or  lift  anew  the  trampled  light, 
Quenched  by  the  heedless  million's  feet  ? 

"  Give  o'er  the  thankless  task  ;  forsake 
The  fools  who  know  not  ill  from  good  ; 

Eat,  drink,  enjoy  thy  own,  and  take 
Thine  ease  among  the  multitude. 


"Live  out  thyself;  with  others  share 
Thy  proper  life  no  more  ;  assume 

The  unconcern  of  sun  and  air, 

For  life  or  death,  or  blight  or  bloom. 

"  The  mountain  pine  looks  calmly  on 
The  fires  that  scourge  the  plains  below, 

Nor  heeds  the  eagle  in  the  sun 

The  small  birds  piping  in  the  snow  ! 

"  The  world  is  God's,  not  thine  ;  let  him 
Work  out  a  change,  if  change  must  be  : 

The  hand  that  planted  best  can  trim 
And  nurse  the  old  unfruitful  tree. " 

So  spake  the  Tempter,  when  the  light 
Of  sun  and  stars  had  left  the  sky, 

I  listened,  through  the  cloud  and  night, 
And  heard,  methought,  a  voice  reply  : 

' l  Thy  task  may  well  seem  over-hard, 
Who  scatterest  in  a  thankless  soil 

Thy  life  as  seed,  with  no  reward 
Save  that  which  Duty  gives  to  Toil. 

"  Not  wholly  is  thy  heart  resigned 
To  Heaven's  benign  and  just  decree, 

Which,  linking  thee  with  all  thy  kind, 
Transmits  their  joys  and  grief  s  to  thea. 

"  Break  off  that  sacred  chain,  and  turn 
Back  on  thyself  thy  love  and  care  ; 

Be  thou  thine  ow  nmean  idol,  burn 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Trust,  thy  children,  there. 

"  Released  from  that  fraternal  law 
Which  shares  the  common  bale  and  bliss, 

No  sadder  lot  could  Folly  draw, 

Or  Sin  provoke  from  Fate,  than  this. 

u  The  meal  unshared  is  food  unblest : 
Thou  hoard' st  in  vain  what  love  should  spend ; 

Self -ease  is  pain  ;  thy  only  rest 
Is  labor  for  a  worthy  end. 

"  A  toil  that  gains  with  what  it  yields, 

And  scatters  to  its  own  increase, 
And  hears,  while  sowing  outward  fields, 

The  harvest-song  of  inward  peace. 

"  Free-lipped  the  liberal  streamlets  run, 
Free  shines  for  all  the  healthful  ray  ; 

The  still  pool  stagnates  in  the  sun, 
The  lurid  earth-fire  haunts  decay  ! 

"  What  is  it  that  the  crowd  requite 
Thy  love  with  hate,  thy  truth  with  lies  ? 

And  but  t j  faith,  and  not  to  sight, 
The  walls  of  Freedom's  temple  rise  ? 

"  Yet  do  thy  work  ;  it  shall  succeed 

In  thine  or  in  another's  day  ; 
And,  if  denied  the  victor's  meed, 

Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  toiler's  pay. 

"Faith  shares  the  future's  promise  ;  Love's 

Self -offering  is  a  triumph  won  ; 
And  each  good  thought  or  action  moves 

The  dark  world  nearer  to  the  sun. 

"  Then  faint  not,  falter  not,  nor  plead 
Thy  weakness  ;  truth  itself  is  strong ; 

The  lion's  strength,  the  eagle's  speed, 
Are  not  alone  vouchsafed  to  wrong. 

"Thy  nature,  which,  through  fire  and  flood, 
To  place  or  gain  finds  out  its  way, 

Hath  power  to  seek  the  highest  good, 
And  duty's  holiest  call  obey  ! 


143 


THE  HERO.— MY  DREAM. 


u  Strivest  thou  in  darkness? — Foes  without 
In  league  with  traitor  thoughts  within  ; 

Thy  night-watch  kept  with  trembling  Doubt 
And  pale  Remorse  the  ghost  of  Sin  ? — 

"Hast  thou  not,  on  some  week  of  storm, 
Seen  the  sweet  Sabbath  breaking  fair, 

And  cloud  and  shadow,  sun  lit,  form 
The  curtains  of  its  tent  of  prayer  ? 

' '  So,  haply,  when  thy  task  shall  end, 
The  wrong  shall  lose  itself  in  right, 

And  all  thy  week-day  darkness  blend 
With  the  long  Sabbath  of  the  light !  " 


THE  HERO. 

"  O  FOR  a  knight  like  Bayard, 

Without  reproach  or  fear ; 
My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 

My  love-knot  on  his  spear ! 

"  O  for  the  white  plume  floating 
Sad  Zutphen's  field  above, — 

The  lion  heart  in  battle, 
The  woman's  heart  in  love  ! 

"  O  that  man  once  more  were  manly, 
Woman's  pride,  and  not  her  scorn  : 

That  once  more  the  pale  young  mother 
Dared  to  boast  '  a  man  is  born '  ! 

"But,  now  life's  slumberous  current 
No  sun-bowed  cascade  wakes ; 

No  tall,  heroic  manhood 
The  level  dulness  breaks. 

"  O  for  a  knight  like  Bayard, 

Without  reproach  or  fear  ! 
My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 

My  love-knot  on  his  spear  !  " 

Then  I  said,  my  own  heart  throbbing 
To  the  time  her  proud  pulse  beat, 

"Life hath  its  regal  natures  yet, — 
True,  tender,  brave,  and  sweet ! 

"  Smile  not,  fair  unbeliever  ! 

One  man,  at  least,  1  know, 
Who  might  wear  the  crest  of  Bayard 

Or  Sidney's  plume  of  snow. 

"  Once,  when  over  purple  mountains 

Died  away  the  Grecian  sun, 
And  the  far  Cyllenian  ranges 

Paled  and  darkened,  one  by  one, — 

"Fell  the  Turk,  a  bolt  of  thunder, 

Cleaving  all  the  quiet  sky, 
And  against  his  sharp  steel  lightnings 

Stood  the  Suliote  but  to  die. 

"  Woe  for  the  weak  and  halting  ! 

The  crescent  blazed  behind 
A  curving  line  of  sabres, 

Like  fire  before  the  wind  ! 

"  Last  to  fly,  and  first  to  rally, 

Rode  he  of  whom  I  speak, 
When,  groaning  in  his  bridle-path, 

Sank  down  a  wounded  Greek. 

*'  With  the  rich  Albanian  costume 
Wet  with  many  a  ghastly  stain, 

Gazing  on  earth  and  sky  as  one 
Who  might  not  gaze  again  ! 


a  He  looked  forward  to  the  mountains, 

Back  on  foes  that  never  spare, 
Then  flung  him  from  his  saddle, 

And  placed  the  stranger  there. 

'' '  Allah  !  hu  ! '     Through  flashing  sabres, 

Through  a  stormy  hail  of  lead, 
The  good  Thessalian  charger         , 

Up  the  slopes  of  olives  sped. 

"  Hot  spurred  the  turbaned  riders  ; 

He  almost  felt  their  breath, 
Where  a  mountain  stream  rolled  darkly  down 

Between  the  hills  and  death. 

"  One  brave  and  manful  struggle, — 

He  gained  the  solid  land, 
And  the  cover  of  the  mountains, 

And  the  carbines  of  his  band  !  " 

"  It  was  very  great  and  noble," 
Said  the  moist-eyed  listener  then, 

"  But  one  brave  deed  makes  no  hero ; 
Tell  me  what  he  since  hath  been  !  " 

"  Still  a  brave  and  generous  manhood, 

Still  an  honor  without  stain, 
In  the  prison  of  the  Kaiser, 

By  the  barricades  of  Seine. 

"But  dream  not  helm  and  harness 

The  sign  of  valor  true  ; 
Peace  hath  higher  tests  of  manhood 

Than  battle  ever  knew. 

"  Wouldst  know  him  now  ?    Behold  him, 

The  Cadmus  of  the  blind, 
Giving  the  dumb  lip  language, 

The  idiot  clay  a  mind. 

"  Walking  his  round  of  duty 

Serenely  day  by  day, 
With  the  strong  man's  hand  of  labor 

And  childhood's  heart  of  play. 

"True  as  the  knights  of  story, 

Sir  Lancelot  and  his  peers, 
Brave  in  his  calm  endurance 

As  they  in  tilt  of  spears. 

"  As  waves  in  stillest  waters, 

As  stars  in  noonday  skies, 
All  that  wakes  to  noble  action 

In  his  noon  of  calmness  lies. 

"  Wherever  outraged  Nature 

Asks  word  or  action  brave, 
Wherever  struggles  labor, 

Wherever  groans  a  slave, — 

"  Wherever  rise  the  peoples, 

Wherever  sinks  a  throne, 
The  throbbing  heart  of  Freedom  finds 

An  answer  in  his  own. 

' '  Knight  of  a  better  era, 

Without  reproach  or  fear  ! 
Said  I  not  well  that  Bayards 

And  Sidneys  still  are  here  ?  " 


MY  DREAM. 

IN  my  dream,  methought  I  trod, 
Yesternight,  a  mountain  road  ; 
Narrow  as  Al  Sirat's  span, 
High  as  eagle's  flight,  it  ran. 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 


143 


Overhead,  a  roof  of  cloud 
With  its  weight  of  thunder  bowed  ; 
Underneath,  to  left  and  right, 
Blankness  and  abysmal  night. 

Here  and  there  a  wild-flower  blushed, 
Now  and  then  a  bird-song  gushed  ; 
Now  and  then,  through  rifts  of  shade, 
Stars  shone  out,  and  sunbeams  played. 

But  the  goodly  company, 
Walking  in  that  path  with  me, 
One  by  one  the  brink  o'erslid, 
One  by  one  the  darkness  hid. 

Some  with  wailing  and  lament, 
Some  with  cheerful  courage  went ; 
But,  of  all  who  smiled  or  mourned, 
Never  one  to  us  returned. 

Anxiously,  with  eye  and  ear, 
Questioning  that  shadow  drear, 
Never  hand  in  token  stirred, 
Never  answering  voice  I  heard  ! 

Steeper,  darker !— lo  !  I  felt 
From  my  feet  the  pathway  melt. 
Swallowed  by  the  black  despair, 
And  the  hungry  jaws  of  air, 

Past  the  stony -throated  caves, 
Strangled  by  the  wash  of  waves, 
Past  the  splintered  crags,  I  sank 
On  a  green  and  flowery  bank, — 

Soft  as  fall  of  thistle-down, 
Lightly  as  a  cloud  is  blown, 
Soothingly  as  childhood  pressed 
To  the  bosom  of  its  rest. 

Of  the  sharp-horned  rocks  instead, 
Green  and  grassy  meadows  spread, 
Bright  with  waters  singing  by 
Trees  that  propped  a  golden  sky. 

Painless,  trustful,  sorrow-free, 
Old  lost  faces  welcomed  me, 
With  whose  sweetness  of  content 
Still  expectant  hope  was  blent. 

Waking  while  the  dawning  gray 
Slowly  brightened  into  day, 
Pondering  that  vision  fled, 
Thus  unto  myself  I  said : — 

"  Steep,  and  hung  with  clouds  of  strife, 
Is  our  narrow  path  of  life  ; 
And  our  death  the  dreaded  fall 
Through  the  dark,  awaiting  all. 

' '  So,  with  painful  steps  we  climb 
Up  the  dizzy  ways  of  time, 
Ever  in  the  shadow  shed 
By  the  forecast  of  our  dread. 

"Dread  of  mystery  solved  alone, 
Of  the  untried  and  unknown  ; 
Yet  the  end  thereof  may  seem 
Like  the  falling  of  my  dream. 

"And  this  heart-consuming  care, 
All  our  fears  of  here  or  there, 
Change  and  absence,  loss  and  death, 
Prove  but  simple  lack  of  faith." 

Thou,  O  Most  Compassionate  ! 
Who  didst  stoop  to  our  estate, 
Drinking  of  the  cup  we  drain, 
Treading  in  our  path  of  pain,— 


Through  the  doubt  and  mystery, 
Grant  to  us  thy  steps  to  see, 
And  the  grace  to  draw  from  thence 
Larger  hope  and  confidence. 

Show  thy  vacant  tomb,  and  let, 
As  of  old,  the  angels  sit, 
Whispering,  by  its  open  door  : 
u  Fear  not !     He  hath  gone  before  ! " 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 

BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons. 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace : 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy, — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  ! 
Prince  thou  art, — the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye, —  • 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy : 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 

O  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  groundnut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  ! — 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  an&wjers  all  he  asks  ; 
Hand  inlulfifr  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy, — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

O  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
Wiien  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Mg,  their  master,  waited  for. 
IT  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade  ; 
For  my  taste, the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge*and  stone  ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 


144 


FLOWERS  IN  WINTER.— THE  RENDITION. 


Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides ! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too  ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

O  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread, — 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude  ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold  ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  lauiih,  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat : 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 


FLOWERS  IN  WINTER. 

PAINTED  UPON  A  PORTE  LJVRE. 

How  strange  to  greet,  this  frosty  morn, 
In  graceful  counterfeit  of  flowers, 

These  children  of  the  meadows,  born 
Of  sunshine  and  of  showers  ! 

How  well  the  conscious  wood  retains 
The  pictures  of  its  flower-sown  home, — 

The  lights  and  shades,  the  purple  stains, 
And  golden  hues  of  bloom  ! 

It  was  a  happy  thought  to  bring 
To  the  dark  season's  frost  and  rime 

This  painted  memory  of  spring, 
This  dream  of  summer-time. 

Our  hearts  are  lighter  for  its  sake, 
Our  fancy's  age  renews  its  youth, 

And  dim-remembered  fictions  take 
The  guise  of  present  truth. 

A  wizard  of  the  Merrimack,  — 
So  old  ancestral  legends  say, — 

Could  call  green  leaf  and'blossom  back 
To  frosted  stem  and  spray. 

The  dry  logs  of  the  cottage  wall, 

Beneath  h:s  touch,  put  out  their  leaves  : 

The  clay-bound  swallow,  at  his  call, 
Played  round  the  icy  eaves. 


The  settler  saw  his  oaken  flail 

Take  bud,  and  bloom  before  his  eyes  ; 

From  frozen  pools  he  saw  the  pale, 
Sweet  summer  lilies  rise. 

To  their  old  homes,  by  man  profaned, 
Came  the  sad  dryads,  exiled  long, 

And  through  their  leafy  tongues  complained 
Of  household  use  and  wrong. 

The  beechen  platter  sprouted  wild, 
The  pipkin  wore  its  old-time  green ; 

The  cradle  o'er  the  sleeping  child 
Became  a  leafy  screen. 

Eaply  our  gentle  friend  hath  met, 
While  wandering  in  her  sylvan  quest, 

Haunting  his  native  woodlands  yet, 
That  Druid  of  the  West  ;— 

And,  while  the  dew  on  leaf  and  flower 
Glistened  in  moonlight  clear  and  still, 

Learned  the  dusk  wizard's  spell  of  power, 
And  caught  his  trick  of  skill. 

But  welcome,  be  it  new  or  old. 

The  gift  which  makes  the  day  more  bright, 
And  paints,  upon  the  ground  of  cold 

And  darkness,  warmth  and  light ! 

Without  is  neither  gold  nor  green  ; 

Within,  for  birds,  the  birch-logs  sing  ; 
Yet,  summer-like,  we  sit  between 

The  autumn  and  the  spring. 

The  one,  with  bridal  blush  of  rose, 

And  sweetest  breath  of  woodland  balm, 

And  one  whose  matron  lips  unclose 
In  smiles  of  saintly  calm. 

Fill  soft  and  deep,  O  winter  snow ! 

The  sweet  azalia's  oaken  dells, 
And  hide  the  bank  where  roses  blow, 

And  swung  the  azure  bells  ! 

O'erlay  the  amber  violet's  leaves, 
The  purple  aster's  brookside  home, 

Guard  all  the  flowers  her  pencil  gives 
A  life  beyond  their  bloom. 

And  she,  when  ppring  comes  round  again, 
By  greening  slope  and  singing  flood 

Shall  wander,  seeking,  not  in  vain, 
Her  darlings  of  the  wood. 


THE  RENDITION. 

I  HEARD  the  train's  shrill  whistle  call, 
I  saw  an  earnest  look  beseech, 
And  rather  by  that  look  than  speech 

My  neighbor  told  me  all. 

And,  as  I  thought  of  Liberty 

Marched  handcuffed  down  that  sworded  street, 

The  solid  earth  beneath  my  feet 
Reeled  fluid  as  the  sea. 

I  felt  a  sense  of  bitter  loss, — 

Shame,  tearless  grief,  and  stifling  wrath, 

And  loathing  fear,  as  if  my  path 
A  serpent  stretched  across. 

All  love  of  home,  all  pride  of  place, 
All  generous  confidence  and  trust, 
Sank  smothering  in  that  deep  disgust 

And  anguish  of  disgrace. 


LINES. --THE  FRUIT-GIFT.— A  MEMORY. 


145 


Down  on  my  native  hills  of  June, 
And  home's  green  quiet,  hiding  all, 
Fell  sudden  darkness  like  the  fall 

Of  midnight  upon  noon  ! 

And  Law,  an  unloosed  maniac,  strong, 
Blood-drunken,  through  the  blackness  trod, 
Hoarse-shouting  in  the  ear    f  God 

The  blasphemy  of  wrong. 

"  O  Mother,  from  thy  memories  proud, 
Thy  old  renown,  dear  Commonwealth, 
Lend  this  dead  air  a  breeze  of  health, 

And  smite  with  stars  this  cloud. 

'  Mother  of  Freedom,  wise  and  brave. 
Rise  awful  in  thy  strength,"  I  said  ; 
Ah  me !  I  spake  but  to  the  dead ; 
I  stood  upon  her  grave  ! 

6th  mo. ,  1854. 


LINES, 

ON  THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  BILL  TO  PROTECT  THE 
RIGHTS  AND  LIBERTIES  OF  THE  PEOPLE  OF 
THE  STATE  AGAINST  THE  FUGITIVE  SLAVE  ACT. 

I  SAID  I  stood  upon  thy  grave, 
My  Mother  State,  when  last  the  moon 
Of  blossoms  clomb  the  skies  of  June, 

And,  scattering  ashes  on  my  head, 
I  wore,  undreaming  of  relief, 
The  sackcloth  of  thy  shame  and  grief. 

Again  that  moon  of  blossoms  shines 
On  leaf  and  flower  and  folded  wing, 
And  thou  hast  risen  with  the  spring  ! 

Once  more  thy  strong  maternal  arms 
Ar.i  round  about  thy  children  flung, — 
A  lioness  that  guards  her  young  ! 

No  threat  is  on  thy  close"  d  lips, 
But  in  thine  eye  a  power  to  smite 
The  mad  wolf  backward  from  its  light. 

Southward  the  baffled  robber's  track 
Henceforth  runs  only  ;  hereaway, 
The  fell  lycanthrope  finds  no  prey. 

Henceforth,  within  thy  sacred  gates, 
His  first  low  howl  shall  downward  draw 
The  thunder  of  thy  righteous  law. 

Not  mindless  of  thy  trade  and  gain, 
But,  acting  on  the  wiser  plan. 
Thou  'rt  grown  conservative  of  man. 

So  shalt  thou  clothe  with  life  the  hope, 
Dream-painted  on  the  sightless  eyes 
Of  him  who  sang  of  Paradise, — 

The  vision  of  a  Christian  man, 
In  virtue  as  in  stature  great, 
Embodied  in  a  Christian  State. 

And  thou,  amidst  thy  sisterhood 
Forbearing  long,  yet  standing  fast, 
Shalt  win  their  grateful  thanks  at  last ; ' 

When  North  and  South  shall  strive  no  more, 
And  all  their  feuds  and  fears  be  lost 
In  Freedom's  holy  Pentecost. 

Qth  mo.,  1855. 

10 


THE  FRUIT-GIFT. 

LAST  night,  just  as  the  tints  of  autumn's  sky 
Of  sunset  faded  from  our  hills  and  streams, 
I  sat,  vague  listening,  lapped  in  twilight  dreams, 
To  the  leaf's  rustle,  and  the  cricket's  cry. 
Then,  like  that  basket,  flush  with  summer  fruit, 
Dropped  by  the  angels  at  the  Prophet's  foot, 
Came,  unannounced,  a  gift  of  clustered  sweetness, 
Full- orbed,    and    glowing    with    the  prisonea 

beams 

Of  summery  suns,  and  rounded  to  completeness 
By  kisses  of  the  south-wind  and  the  dew. 
Thrilled  with  a  glad  surprise,  methought  I  knew 
The  pleasure  of  the  homeward-turning  Jew, 
When  Eschol's  clusters  on  his  shoulders  lay, 
Dropping  their  sweetness  on  his  desert  way. 

I  said,  "  This  fruit  beseems  no  world  of  sin. 
Its  parent  vine,  rooted  in  Paradise, 
O'ercrept  the  wall,  and  never  paid  the  price 
Of  the  great  mischief, — an  ambrosial  tree, 
Eden's  exotic,  somehow  smuggled  in, 

To  keep  the  thorns  and  thistles  company." 
Perchance  our  frail,  sad  mother  plucked  in  haste 

A  single  vine-slip  as  she  passed  the  gate, 
'  Where    the    dread   sword   alternate   paled   and 

burned, 

And  the  stern  angel,  pitying  her  fate, 
Forgave  the  lovely  trespasser,  and  turned 
Aside  his  face  of  fire  :  and  thus  the  waste 
And  fallen  world  hath  yet  its  annual  tasta 
Of  primal  good,  to  prove  of  sin  the  cost, 
And  show  by  one  gleaned  ear  the  mighty  harvest 
lost. 


A  MEMORY. 

HERE,  while  the  loom  of  Winter  weaves. 

The  shroud  of  flowers  and  fountains, 
I  think  of  thee  and  summer  eves 

Among  the  Northern  mountains. 

When  thunder  tolled  the  twilight's  close,. 
And  winds  the  lake  were  rude  on, 

And  thou  wert  singing,  Co1  the  Yowes, 
The  bonny  yowes  of  Cluden  ! 

When,  close  and  closer,  hushing  breath, 
Our  circle  narrowed  round 'thee, 

And  smiles  and  tears  made  up  the  wreath. 
Wherewith  our  silence  crowned  thee  ; 

And,  strangers  all,  we  felt  the  ties 

Of  sisters  and  of  brothers  ; 
Ah  !  whose  of  all  those  kindly  eyes 

Now  smile  upon  another's  ? 

The  sport  of  Time,  who  still  apart 

The  waifs  of  life  is  flinging ; 
O,  nevermore  shall  heart  to  heart 

Draw  nearer  for  that  singing ! 

Yet  when  the  panes  are  frosty-starred, 
And  twilight's  fire  is  gleaming, 

I  hear  the  songs  of  Scotland's  bard 
Sound  softly  through  my  dreaming  L 

A  song  that  lends  to  winter  snows 
The  glow  of  summer  weather, — 

Again  I  hear  thee  ca'  the  yowes 
To  Cluden's  hills  of  heather  1 


146 


TO  C.  S.— KANSAS  EMIGRANTS.— SLAVES  IN  THE  DESERT. 


TO  C.  S. 

IF  I  have  seemed  more  prompt  to  censure  wrong 

Than  praise  the  right ;  if  seldom  to  thine  ear 

My  voice  had  mingled  with  the  exultant  cheer 
Borne  upon  all  our  Northern  winds  along  ; 
If  I  have  failed  to  join  the  fickle  throng 
In  wide-eyed  wonder,  that  thou  standest  strong 
in  victory,    surprised  in  thee  to  find 
Brougham's  scathing  power  with  Canning's  grace 

combined ; 

That  he,  for  whom  the  ninefold  Muses  sang, 
From  their  twined  arms  a  giant  athlete  sprang, 
Barbing  the  arrows  of  his  native  tongue 
With  tiie  spent  shafts  Latona's  archer  flung, 
To  smite  tne  Python  of  our  land  and  time, 
Fell  as  the  monster  born  of  Crissa's  slime, 
Like  the  blind  bard  who  in  Castahan  springs 
Tempered  the  steel  that  clove  the  crest  of  kings, 
And  on  the  shrine  of  England's  freedom  laid 
The  gifts  of  Cumse  and  of  Delphi's  shade,  — 
Small  need  hast  thou  of  words  of  praise  from  me. 

Thoa  knowest  my  heart,  dear  friend,  and  well 
canst  guess 

That,  even  though  silent,  I  have  not  the  less 
Rejoiced  to  see  thy  actual  life  agree 
With  the  large  future  which  I  shaped  for  thee, 
When,  years  ago,  beside  the  summer  sea, 
White  in  the  moon,  we  saw  the  long  waves  fall 
Baffled  and  broken  from  the  rocky  wall, 
That,  to  the  menace  of  the  brawling  flood, 
Opposed  alone  its  massive  q  ietude, 
Ca.m  as  a  fate  ;  with  not  a  leaf  nor  vine 
Nor  birch-spray  trembling  in  the  still  moonshine, 
Crowning  it  like  God's  peace.     I  sometimes  think 

That  night-scene  by  the  sea  prophetical, — 
(For  Nature  speaks  in  symbols  and  in  signs, 
And  through  her  pictures  human  fate  divines), — 
That  rock,  wheretrom  we  saw  the  billows  sink 

In  murmuring  rout,  uprising  clear  and  tall 
In  the  white  light  of  heaven,  the  type  of  one 
Who,  momently  by  Error's  host  assailed, 
Stands  strong  as  Truth,   in  greaves  of  granite 
mailed ; 

And,  tranquil-fronted,  listening  over  all 
The  tumult,  hears  the  angels  say,  Weil  done  ! 


THE  KANSAS  EMIGRANTS. 

WE  cross  the  prairie  as  of  old 
The  pilgrims  crossed  the  sea, 

To  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 
The  homestead  of  the  free  ! 

We  go  to  rear  a  wall  of  men 
On  Freedom's  southern  line, 

And  plant  beside  the  cotton-tree 
The  rugged  Northern  pine  ! 

We  're  flowing  from  our  native  hills 

As  our  free  river  flow  ; 
The  blessing  of  our  Mother-land 

Is  on  us  as  we  go. 

We  go  to  plant  her  common  schools 

On  distant  prairie  swells, 
And  give  the  Sabbaths  of  the  wild 

The  music  of  her  bells. 

Upbearing,  like  the  Ark  of  old, 

The  Bible  in  our  van, 
We  go  to  test  the  truth  of  God 

Against  the  fraud  of  man. 


No  pause,  nor  rest,  save  where  the  streams 

That  feed  the  Kansas  run, 
Save  where  our  Pilgrim  gonfalon 

Shall  flout  the  setting  sun ! 

We  '11  tread  the  prairie  as  of  old 

Our  fathers  sailed  the  sea, 
And  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 

The  homestead  of  the  free  ! 


SONG  OF  SLAVES  IN   THE  DESERT. 

WHERE  are  we  going  ?  where  are  we  going, 

Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  V 
Lord  of  peoples,  lord  of  lands, 
Look  across  these  shining  sands, 
Through  the  furnace  of  the  noon, 
Through  the  white  light  of  the  moon. 
Strong  the  Ghiblee  wind  is  blowing, 
Strange  and  large  the  world  is  growing  ! 
Speak  and  tell  us  where  we  are  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  V 

Bornou  land  was  rich  and  good, 
Wells  of  water,  fields  of  food, 
Dourra  fields,  and  bloom  of  bean, 
And  the  palm-tree  cool  and  green  : 
Bornou  land  we  see  no  longer, 
Here  we  thirst  and  here  we  hunger, 
Here  the  Moor-man  smites  in  anger  : 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  V 

When  we  went  from  Bornou  land, 
We  were  like  the  leaves  and  sand, 
We  were  many,  we  are  few  ; 
Life  has  one,  and  death  has  two  : 
Whitened  bones  our  path  are  showing, 
Thou  All-seeing,  thou  All-knowing  ! 
Hear  us,  tell  us  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

Moons  of  marches  from  our  eyes 
Bornou  land  behind  us  lies  ; 
Stranger  round  us  day  by  day 
Bends  the  desert  circle  gray  ; 
Wild  the  waves  of  sand  are  flowing, 
Hot  the  winds  above  them  blowing, — 
Lord  of  all  things  ! — where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

We  are  weak,  but  Thou  art  strong ; 
Short  our  lives,  but  Thine  is  long ; 
We  are  blind,  but  Thou  hast  eyes ; 
We  are  fools,  but  Thou  art  wise  ! 
Thou,  our  morrow's  pathway  knowing 
Through  the  strange  world  round  us  growing, 
Hear  us,  tell  us  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 


LINES, 

INSCRIBED     TO     FRIENDS     UNDER     ARREST     FOR 
TREASON   AGAINST   THE   SLAVE  POWER. 

THE'age  is  dull  and  mean .     Men  creep, 
Not  walk ;  with  blood  too  pale  and  tame 
To  pay  the  debt  they  owe  to  shame ; 

Buy  cheap,  sell  dear ;  eat,  drink,  and  sleep 
Down-pillowed,  deaf  to  moaning  want ; 

Pay  tithes  for  soul-insurance  ;  keep 
Six  days  to  Mammon,  one  to  Cant. 


THE  NEW  EXODUS.— THE  HASCHISH. 


14? 


In  such  a  time,  give  thanks  to  God, 
That  somewhat  of  the  holy  rage 
With  which  the  prophets  in  their  age 

On  all  its  decent  seemings  trod, 
Has  set  your  feet  upon  the  lie, 

That  man  and  ox  and  soul  and  clod 
Are  market  stock  to  sell  and  buy  ! 

The  hot  words  from  your  lips,  my  own, 

To  caution  trained,  might  not  repeat ; 

But  if  some  tares  among  the  wheat 
Of  generous  thought  and  deed  were  sown, 

No  common  wrong  provoke!  your  zeal ; 
The  silken  gauntlet  that  is  thrown 

In  such  a  quarrel  rings  like  st3el. 

The  brave  old  strife  the  fathers  saw 
For  Freedom  calls  for  men  ag  lin 
Like  those  who  battled  not  in  vain 

For  England's  Charter,  Alfred's  law  ; 
And  right  of  speech  and  trial  just 

Wage  in  your  name  their  ancient  war 
With  venal  courts  and  perjured  trust. 

God's  ways  seem  dark,  but,  soon  or  late, 

They  touch  the  shining  hills  of  day  ; 

The  evil  cannot  brook  delay, 
The  good  can  well  afford  to  wait. 

Give  ermined  knaves  their  hour  of  crime 
Ye  have  the  future  grand  and  great, 

The  safe  appeal  of  Truth  to  Time  ! 


But  in  the  stillness  of  the  noonday,  fall 
The  fetters  of  the  slaves. 

No  longer  through  the  Red  Sea,  as  of  old, 

The  bondmen  walk  dry  shod  ; 
Through  human  hearts,  by  love  of  him  controlled, 

Runs  now  that  path  of  God  ! 


THE  NEW  EXODUS.  64 

BY  fire  and  cloud,  across  the  desert  sand, 

And  through  the  parted  waves, 
From  their  long  bondage^  with  an  outstretched 
hand, 

God  led  the  Hebrew  slaves  ! 

Daad  as  the  letter  of  the  Pentateuch, 

'  As  Egypt's  statues  cold, 
In  the  adytum  of  the  sacred  book 
Now  stands  that  marvel  old. 

"Lo,  God  is  great !"  the  simple  Moslem  says. 

We  seek  the  ancient  date, 
Turn  the  dry  scroll,  and  make  that  living  phrase 

A  dead  one  :  "  God  was  great !  " 

And,  like  the  Coptic  monks  by  Mousa's  wells, 

We  dream  of  wonders  past, 
Vague  as  the  tales  the  wandering  Arab  tells 

Each  drowsier  than  the  last. 

O  fools  and  blind  !     Above  the  Pyramids 

Stretches  once  more  that  hand, 
And  tranced  Egypt,  from  her  stony  lids, 

Flings  back  her  veil  of  sand. 

And  morning-smitten  Memnon,  singing,  wakes 

And,  listening  by  his  Nile, 
O'er  Ammon's  grave  and  awful  visage  breaks 

A  sweet  and  human  smile. 

Not,  as  before,  with  hail  and  fire,  and  call 
Of  death  for  midnight  graves, 


THE  HASCHISH. 

OF  all  that  Orient  lands  can  vaunt 
Of  marvels  with  our  own  competing, 

The  strangest  is  the  Haschish  plant, 
And  what  will  follow  on  its  eating. 

What  pictures  to  the  taster  rise, 
Of  Dervish  or  of  Almeh  dances  ! 

Of  Eblis,  or  of  Paradise, 
Set  all  aglow  with  Houri  glances  ! 

The  poppy  visions  of  Cathay, 

The  heavy  beer-trance  of  the  Suabian  ; 

The  wizard  lights  and  demon  play 
Of  nights  Walpurgis  and  Arabian  ! 

The  Mollah  and  the  Christian  dog 

Change  place  in  mad  metempsychosis  ; 

The  Muezzin  climbs  the  synagogue, 
The  Rabbi  shakes  his  beard  at  Moses  ! 

The  Arab  by  his  desert  well 

Sits  choosing  from  some  Caliph's  daughters, 
And  hears  his  single  camel's  bell 

Sound  welcome  to  his  regal  quarters. 

The  Koran's  leader  makes  complaint 

Of  Shitan  dancin&  on  and  off  it ; 
The  robber  offers  alms,  the  saint 

Drinks  Tokay  and  blasphemes  the  Prophet. 

Such  scenes  that  Eastern  plant  awakes  ; 

But  we  have  one  ordained  to  beat  it, 
The  Haschish  of  the  West,  which  makes 

Or  fools  or  knaves  of  all  who  eat  it. 

The  preacher  eats,  and  straight  appears 

His  Bible  in  a  new  translation  ; 
Its  angels  negro  overseers, 

And  Heaven  itself  a  snug  plantation  ! 

Tha  man  of  peace,  about  whose  dreams 
The  sweet  millennial  angels  cluster, 

Tastes  the  mad  weed,  and  plots  and  schemes, 
A  raving  Cuban  filibuster  ! 

The  noisiest  Democrat,  with  ease. 
It  turns  to  Slavery's  parish  beadle ; 

The  shrewdest  statesman  eats  and  sees 
Due  southward  point  the  polar  needle. 

The  Judge  partakes,  and  sits  erelong 
Upon  his  bench  a  railing  blackguard ; 

Decides  off-hand  that  right  is  wrong, 
And  reads  the  ten  commandments  backward. 

O  potent  plant !  so  rare  a  taste 
Has  never  Turk  or  Gentoo  gotten  • 

The  hempen  Haschish  of  the  East 
Is  powerless  to  our  Western  Cotton  . 


14S 


MARY  GARVIN. 


BALLADS. 


MARY  GARVIN. 

FROM  the  heart  of  Waumbek  Methna,  from  the 

lake  that  never  fails, 
Falls  the  Saco  in  the  green  lap  of  Con  way's  in 

tervales  ; 
There,  in  wild  and  virgin  freshness,  its  waters 

foam  and  flow, 
As  when  Darby  Field  first  saw  them,  two  hun 

dred  years  ago. 

But,  vexed  in  all  its  seaward  course  with  bridges, 

dams,  and  mills, 
How  changed  is  Saco's  stream,  how  lost  its  free 

dom  of  the  hills, 
Since  travelled  Jocelyn,  factor  Vines,  and  stately 

Champernoon 
Heard  on  its  banks    the  gray  wolf's  howl,  tlie 

trumpet  of  the  loon  ! 

With  smoking  axle  hot  with  speed,  with  steeds 

of  fire  and  steam, 
Wide-waked  To-day  leaves  Yesterday  behind 

him  like  a  dream. 
Still,  from  the  hurrying  train  of  Life,  fly  back 


ward  far  and 


ry 
fas 


The  milestones  of  the  fathers,  the  landmarks  of 
the  past. 

But  human  hearts  remain  unchanged  :   the  sor 

row  and  the  sin, 
The  loves  and  hopes  and  fears  of  old,  are  to  our 

own  akin  ; 
And  if,  in  tales  our  fathers  told,  the  songs  our 

mothers  sung, 
Tradition  wears    a    snowy    beard,   Romance    is 

always  young. 

O  sharp-lined  man  of  traffic,  on  Saco's  banks  to 

day  ! 
O  mill-girl  watching  late  and  long  the  shuttle's 

restless  play  ! 
Let,   for  the  once,  a  listening  ear  the  working 

hand  beguile, 
And  lend  my  old  Provincial  tale,  as  suits,  a  tear 

or  smile  ! 


The  evening  gun  had  sounded  from  gray  Fort 

Mary's  walls ; 
Through  the  forest,  like  a  wild  beast,  roared  and 

plunged  the  Saco's  falls. 

And  westward  on  th3  sea-wind,  that  damp  and 

gusty  grew, 
Over    cedars    darkening  inland  the  smokes  of 

Spurwink  blew. 

Onthj  hearth  of  Farmer  Garvin  blazed  the  crack 
ling  walnut  log ; 

Right  and  left  sat  dame  and  goodman,  and  be 
tween  them  lay  the  dog, 

Head  on  paws,  and  tail  slow  wagging,  and  beside 

him  on  her  mat, 

Sitting   drowsy   in   the   fire-light,   winked    and    Earthly  daughter,    Heavenly  mother!    thou    at 
the  mottle;!  cat.  laoof  ™>iif  n«f  ™n^o™n  t ' 


The  goodwif e  dropped  her  needles  :  u  It  is  twenty 

years  to-day, 
Since  the  Indians  fell  on  Saco,  and  stole  our 

child  away." 

Then  they  sank  into  the  silence,  for  each  knew 

the  other's  thought, 
Of  a  great  and  common  sorrow,  and  words  were 

needed  not. 

"Who  knocks?"  cried  Goodman  Garvin.     The 

door  was  open  thrown  ; 
On  two  strangers,  man  and  maiden,  cloaked  and 

furred,  the  fire-light  shone. 

One  with  courteous  gesture  lifted  the  bear-skin 

from  his  head ; 
' '  Lives  here  Elkanah  Garvin  ?  "     "  I  am  he, "  the 

goodman  said. 

"  Sit  ye  down,  and  dry  and  warm  ye,  for  the  night 

is  chill  with  rain. " 
And  the  goodwife  drew  the  settle,   and  stirred 

the  fire  amain. 

The  maid  unclasped  her  cloak-hood,  the  fire-light 

glistened  fair 
In  her  large,  moist  eyes,  and  over  soft  folds  of 

dark  brown  hair. 

Dame  Garvin  looked  upon  her:    "It  is  Mary's 

self  I  see ! 
Dear  heart !  "  she  cried,  ' '  now  tell  me,  has  my 

child  come  back  to  me  ?  " 

"My  name  indeed  is  Mary,"  said  the  stranger, 

sobbing  wild ; 
"  Will  you  be  to  me  a  mother  ?    I  am  Mary  Gar- 

vin's  child  ! 

"  She  sleeps  by  wooded  Simcoe,  but  on  her  dying 

day 
She  bade  my  father  take  me  to  her  kinsfolk  far 

away. 

"  And  when  the  priest  besought  her  to  do  me  no 

such  wrong, 
She  said,  '  May  God  forgive  me  !  I  have  closed 

my  heart  too  long. 

4 '  *  When  I  hid  me  from  my  father,  and  shut  out 

my  mother 's  call, 
I  sinned  against  those  dear  ones,  and  the  Father 

of  us  all. 

"  '  Christ's  love  rebukes  no  home-love,  breaks  no 

tie  of  kin  apart ; 
Better  heresy  in  doctrine,  than  heresy  of  heart. 

"  '  Tell  me  not  the  Church  must  censure :  she  who 

wept  the  Cross  beside 
Never  made  her  own  flesh  strangers,   nor    the 

claims  of  blood  denied ; 

"  'And  if  she  who  wronged  her  parents,  wit .  her 
child  atones  to  them, 


purred  the  mottle;!  cat. 

"Twenty  years  !  "  said  Goodman  Garvin,  speak 
ing  sadly,  under  breath, 

And  his  gray  head  slowly  shaking,  as  one  who 
speaks  of  death. 


least  wilt  not  condemn  ! 

"So,    upon    her    death-bed    lying,   my  blessed 

mother  spake ; 
As  we  come  to  do  her  bidding,  so  receive  us  for 

her  sake." 


MARY  GARVIN. 


149 


"It  is  Mary's  self  I  see." 

"God  be  praised! "  said  Goodwife  Garvin,  "He  j  " Creed  and  right  perchance  may  differ,  yet  our 
taketh,  and  he  gives  ;  faith  and  hope  be  one. 

He  woundeth,  but  he  healeth  •  in  her  child  our  Let  me  be  your  father's  father,  let  him  be  to  me 
daughter  lives  !"  a  son." 

"  Amen !  "  the  old  man  answered,  as  he  brushed  ,  When  the  horn,  on  Sabbath  morning,  through  the 

a  tear  away,  still  and  frosty  air, 

And,  kneeling  by  his  hearthstone,  said,  with  rev-    From  Spurwink,  Pool,  and  Black  Point,  called  to 


erence,  "  Let  us  pray.' 


sermon  and  to  prayer, 


All  its  Oriental  symbols,  and  its  Hebrew  para-  To  the  goodly  house  of  worship,  where,  in  order 

phrase,  due  and  fit, 

Warm   with  earnest  life  and  feeling,   rose  his  As  by  public  vote  directed,  classed  and  ranked 

prayer  of  love  and  praise.  the  people  sit ; 

But  he  started  at  beholding,  as  he  rose  from  off  Mistress  first  and  goodwife  after,  clerkly  squire 

his  knee,  before  the  clown, 

The  stranger  cross  his  forehead  with  the  sign  of    From  the  brave  coat,  lace-embroidered,  to  the 
Papistrie.  gray  frock,  shading  down ; 

I 
"  What  is  this  ?"  cried  Farmer  Garvin.     "  Is  an    From  the  pulpit  read  the  preacher, — "  Goodman 

English  Christian's  home  Garvin  and  his  wife 

A  chapel  or  a  mass-house,   that  you  make  the  j  Fain  would  thank  the  Lord,  whose  kindness  has 
sign  of  Rome  ?  "  followed  them  through  life, 

Then  the  young  girl  knelt  beside  him,  kissed  his  j  "  For  the  great  and  crowning  mercy,  that  their 

trembling  hand,  and  cried  :  daughter,  from  the  wild, 

"  O,  forbear  to  chide  my  father  ;  in  that  faith  my    Where  she  rests  (they  hope  in  God's  peace),  has 


mother  died  ! 


sent  to  them  her  child  ; 


u  On  her  wooden  cross  at  Simcoe  the  dews  and  }  "And  the  prayers  of  all  God's  people  they  ask, 
sunshine  fall,  that  they  may  prove 

As  they  fall  on  Spurwink's  graveyard;  and  the  Not  unworthy,  through  their  weakness,  of  such 
dear  God  watches  all !  "  special  proof  of  love." 

The  old  man  stroked  the  fair  head  that  rested  on  As  the  preacher  prayed,  uprising,  the  aged  couple 
his  knee  ;  stood, 

"Your  words,  dear  child,"  he  answered,  "are  And  the  fair  Canadian  also,  in  her  modest  maid- 
God's  rebuke  to  me.  enhood. 


150 


MAUD  MULLER. 


Thought  the  elders,  grave  and  doubting, 

Papist  born  and  bred  "  ; 
Thought  the  young  men,  U'T  is  an  angel  in  Mary 

Garvin's  stead !  " 


She  is    The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 


MAUD  MULLER. 

MAUD  MULLER,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast, — 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 


He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  asked  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave*  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"  Thanks  !  "  said  the  Judge ;  "  a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees  ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown  ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 


Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed  ' 


MAUD  MULLER.— THE  RANGER. 


151 


At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed  :   u  Ah  me  ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be  ! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  p:  aise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

u  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat ; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"I  'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 
Aud  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"  And  I  'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still 

u  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay  : 

"  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

u  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds. 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud  and  cold, 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go  ; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  <  n  his  garnished  rooms 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret  pain, 
"Ah,  that  I  were  free  again  ! 

1 '  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 


In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
fche  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

God  pity  them  both  !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these ;  "It  might  have  been  !  " 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away  ! 


THE  RANGER. 

ROBERT  RAWLIN  ! — Frosts  were  falling 
When  the  ranger's  horn  was  calling 

Through  the  woods  to  Canada. 
Gone  the  winter's  sleet  and  snowing, 
Gone  the  spring-time's  bud  and  blowing, 
Gone  the  summer's  harvest  mowing, 

And  again  the  fields  are  gray. 

Yet  away,  he  's  away  ! 
Faint  and  fainter  hope  is  growing 

In  the  hearts  that  mourn  his  stay. 

Where  the  lion,  crouching  high  on 
Abraham's  rock  with  teeth  of  iron, 

Glares  o'er  wood  and  wave  away, 
Faintly  thence,  as  pines  far  sighing, 
Or  as  thunder  spent  and  dying, 
Come  the  cht  llenge  and  replying, 

Come  the  sounds  of  flight  and  fray. 

Well-a-day  !  Hope  and  pray  ! 
Some  are  living,  some  are  lying 

In  their  red  graves  far  away. 

Straggling  rangers,  worn  with  dangers, 
Homeward  faring,  weary  strangers 

Pass  the  farm-gate  on  their  way  ; 
Tidings  of  the  dead  and  living. 
Forest  march  and  ambush,  giving, 
Till  the  maidens  leave  their  weaving, 

And  the  lads  forget  their  play. 

"  Still  away,  still  away  !  " 
Sighs  a  sad  one,  sick  with  grieving, 

"  Why  does  Robert  still  delay  !  " 

Nowhere  fairer,  sweeter,  rarer, 
Does  the  golden-locked  fruit-bearer 

Through  his  painted  woodlands  stray, 
Than  where  hillside  oa.ks  and  beeches 
Overlook  the  long,  blue  reaches, 


152 


THE  RANGER. 


"  O'er  went  wheel  and  reel  together.1' 


Silver  coves  and  pebbled  beaches, 
And  green  isles  of  Casco  Bay  ; 
Nowhere  day,  for  delay, 

With  a  tenderer  look  beseeches, 

"  Let  me  with  my  charmed  earth  stay." 

On  the  grain-lands  of  the  mainlands 
Stands  the  serried  corn  like  train-bands, 

Plume  and  pennon  rustling  gay  ; 
Out  at  sea,  the  islands  wooded, 
Silver  birches,  gclden-hooded, 
Set  with  maples,  crimson-blooded, 

White  sea-foam  and  sand-hills  gray, 

Stretch  away,  far  away. 
Dim  and  dreamy,  over-brooded 

By  the  hazy  autumn  day. 

Gayly  chattering  to  the  clattering 

Of  the  brown  nuts  downward  pattering, 

Leap  the  squirrels,  red  and  gray. 
On  the  grass-land,  on  the  fallow, 
Drop  the  apples,  red  and  yellow  ; 
Drop  the  russet  pears  and  mellow, 

Drop  the  red  leaves  all  the  day, 

And  away,  swift  away, 
Sun  and  cloud,  o'er  hill  and  hollow 

Chasing,  weave  their  web  of  play. 

"  Martha  Mason,  Martha  Mason, 
Prithee  tell  us  of  the  reason 

Why  you  mope  at  home  to-day  : 
Surely  smiling  is  not  sinning  ; 
Leave  your  quilling,  leave  your  spinning ; 
What  is  all  your  store  of  linen. 

If  your  heart  is  never  gay  ? 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
Never  yet  did  sad  beginning 

Make  the  task  of  life  a  play." 

Overbending  till  she's  blending 
With  the  flaxen  skein  she's  tending 
Pale  brown  tresses  smoothed  away 
From  her  face  of  patient  sorrow, 


Sits  she,  seeking  but  to  borrow, 
From  the  trembling  hope  of  morrow, 

Solace  for  the  weary  day. 

"  Go  your  way,  laugh  and  play  ; 
Unto  Him  who  heeds  the  sparrow 

And  the  lily,  let  me  pray. " 

"  With  our  rally,  rings  the  valley, — 
Join  us  !  "  cried  the  blue-eyed  Nelly ; 

"Join  us!"  cried  the  laughing  May, 
"  To  the  beach  we  all  are  going, 
And,  to  save  the  task  of  rowing, 
West  by  north  the  wind  is  blowing, 

Blowing  briskly  down  the  bay  ! 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
Time  and  tide  are  swiftly  flowing, 

Let  us  take  them  while  we  may  ! 

"  Never  tell  us  that  you'll  fail  us, 
Where  the  purple  beach-plum  mellows 

On  the  bluffs  so  wild  and  gray. 
Hasten,  for  the  oars  are  falling  ; 
Hark,  our  merry  mates  are  calling  : 
Time  it  is  that  we  were  all  in, 

Singing  tide  ward  down  the  bay  !  " 

1  *  Nay,  nay,  let  me  stay  ; 
Sore  and  sad  for  Robert  Rawlin 

Is  my  heart,"  she  said,  "to-day." 

"  Vain  your  calling  for  Rob  Rawlin  ! 
Some  red  squaw  his  moose-meat 's  broiling, 

Or  some  French  lass,  singing  gay  ; 
Just  forget  as  he 's  f 01  getting  ; 
What  avails  a  life  of  fretting  ? 
If  some  stars  must  needs  be  settirg, 

Others  rise  as  good  as  they." 

"  Cease,  I  pray  ;  go  your  way  !  " 
Martha  cries,  her  eyelids  wetting : 

u  Foul  and  false  the  words  you  say  !  " 

"  Martha  Mason,  hear  to  reason  ! 
Prithee,  put  a  kinder  face  on  !  " 
"  Cease  to  vex  me,"  did  she  sa.y ; 


THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 


153 


"Better  at  his  side  be  lying, 

With  the  mournful  pine-trees  sighing, 

And  the  wild  birds  o'er  us  crying, 

Than  to  doubt  like  mine  a  prey ; 

While  away,  far  away, 
Turns  my  heart,  forever  trying 

Some  new  hope  for  each  new  day. 

"  When  the  shadows  veil  the  meadows, 
And  the  sunset's  golden  ladders 

Sink  from  twilight's  walls  of  gray,  — 
From  the  window  of  my  dreaming, 
I  can  see  his  sickle  gleaming, 
Cherry-voiced,  can  hear  him  teaming 

Down  the  locust-shaded  way  ; 

But  away,  swift  away, 
Fades  the  fond,  delusive  seeming, 

And  I  kneel  again  to  pray. 

"  When  the  growing  dawn  is  showing, 
And  the  barn-yard  cock  is  crowing, 
And  the  horned  moon  pales  away  : 
From  a  dream,  of  him  awaking, 
Every  sound  my  heart  is  making 
Seems  a  footstep  of  his  taking ; 


Then  I  hush  the  thought,  and  say, 
4  Nay,  nay,  he 's  away  !  ' 
Ah  !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  breaking 
For  the  dear  one  far  away." 

Look  up,  Martha  !  worn  and  swarthy, 
Glows  a  face  of  manhood  worthy  : 

"Robert  !  "  " Martha  !  "  all  they  say. 
O'er  went  wheel  and  reel  together, 
Little  cared  the  owner  \\hither  ; 
Heart  of  lead  is  heart  of  feather, 

Noon  of  night  is  noon  of  day  ! 

Come  away,  come  away ! 
When  such  lovers  meet  each  other, 

Why  should  prying  idlers  stay  ? 

Quench  the  timber's  fallen  embers, 
Quench  the  red  leaves  in  December's 

Hoary  rime  and  chilly  spray. 
But  the  hearth  shall  kindle  clearer, 
Household  welcomes  sound  sincerer, 
Heart  to  loving  heart  draw  nearer, 

When  the  bridal  bells  shall  say  : 

' '  Hope  and  pray,  trust  alway  ; 
Life  is  sweeter,  love  is  dearer, 

For  the  trial  and  delay  !  " 


LATER  POEMS. 

1856-'57. 


THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN, 
i. 

O'ER  the  bare  woods,  whose  out-stretched  hands 

Plead  with  the  leaden  heavens  in  vain, 
I  see,  beyond  the  valley  lands, 

The  sea's  long  level  dim  with  rain. 
Around  me  all  things,  stark  and  dumb, 
Seem  praying  for  the  snows  to  come, 
And,  for  the  summer  bloom  and  greenness  gone, 
With  winter's  sunset  lights  and  dazzling  morn 
atone. 


II. 

the  river's  summer  walk, 
The   withered  tufts  of  asters  nod  ; 
And  trembles  on  its  arid  stalk 

The  hoar  plume  of  the  golden-rod. 
And  on  a  ground  of  sombre  fir, 
And  azure-studded  juniper, 
The  silver  b:rch  its  buds  of  purple  shows, 
And  scarlet  berries  tell  where  bloomed  the  sweet 
wild-rose  ! 


With  mingled  sound  of  horns  and  bells, 

A  far-heard  clang,  the  wild  geese  fly, 

Storm-sent,  from  Arctic  moors  and  fells, 

Like  a  great  arrow  through  the  sky, 
Two  dusky  lines  converged  in  one, 
Chasing  the  southward-flying  sun  ; 
While  the  brave  snow-bird  and  the  hardy  jay 
Call  to  them  from  the  pines,  as  if  to  bid  them 
stay. 


I  passed  this  way  a  year  ago  : 

The  wind  blew  south ;  the  noon  of  day 
Was  warm  as  June's  ;  and  save  that  snow 

Fleoked  the  low  mountains  far  away, 
And  that  the  vernal-seeming  breeze 
Mocked  faded  grass  and  leafless  trees, 
I  might  have  dreamed  of  summer  as  I  lay, 
Watching  the  fallen  leaves  with  the  soft  wind  at 
play. 


Since  then,  the  winter  blasts  have  piled 

The  white  pagodas  of  the  snow 
On  these  rough  slopes,  and,  strong  and  wild, 

Yon  river,  in  its  overflow 
Of  spring-time  rain  and  sun,  set  free, 
Crashed  with  its  ices  to  the  sea  ; 
And  over  these  gray  fields,  then  green  and  gold, 
The  summer  corn  has  waved,  the  thunder's  organ 
rolled. 


VI. 


Rich  gift  of  God  !     A  year  of  time  ! 

What  pomp  of  rise  and  shut  of  day, 
What  hues  wherewith  our  Northern 'clime 

Makes  autumn's  dropping  woodlands  gay, 
What  airs  outblown  from  ferny  dells, 
And  clover-bloom  and  sweetbrier  smells. 
What  songs  of  brooks  and  birds,  what  fruits  and 

flowers, 

Green  woods    and  moonlit    snows,  have  in  its 
round  been  ours  ! 


154 


THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 


I  know  not  how,  in  other  lands, 

The  changing  seasons  come  and  go ; 
What  splendors  fall  on  Syrian  sands, 

What  purple  lights  on  Alpine  snow  ! 
Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates  ; 
A  dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno's  vale, 
And  the  Alhambra's  halls  are  but  a  traveller's  tale. 


Yet,  on  life's  current,  he  who  drifts 
Is  one  with  him  who  rows  or  sails  ; 
And  he  who  wanders  widest  lifts 

No  more  of  beauty's  jealous  veils 
Then  he  who  from  his  doorway  sees 
The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees, 
Feels  the  warm  Orient  in  the  noonday  air, 
And  from  cloud  minarets  hears  the  sunset  call  to 
prayer ! 


The  eye  may  well  be  glad,  that  looks 

Where  Pharpar's  fountains  r:s9  and  fall ; 
But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 

Laugh  in  the  sun,  has  seen  them  all. 
The  marble  palaces  of  Ind 
Rise  round  him  in  the  snow  and  wind  ; 
From  his  lone  swcetbrier  Persian  Hafiz  smiles, 
And  Rome's  cathedral  awe  is  in  his  woodland 
aisles. 

x. 

And  thus  it  is  my  fancy  blends 

The  near  at  hand  and  far  and  rare  ; 
And  while  the  same  horizon  bends 
Above  the  silver-sprmkled  hair 
Which  flashed  the  light  of  morning  skies 
On  childhood's  wonder-lifted  eyes, 
Within  its  round  of  sea  and  sky  and  field, 
Earth  wheels  with  all  her  zones,   the  Kosmos 
stands  revealed. 

XI. 

And  thus  the  sick  man  on  his  bed, 

The  toiler  to  his  task-work  bound, 
Behold  their  prison-walls  outspread, 

Their  clipped  horizon  widen  round  ! 
While  freedom-giving  fancy  waits, 
Like  Peter's  angel  at  the  gates, 
The  power  is  theirs  to  baffle  care  and  pain, 
To  bring  the  lost  world  back,  and  make  it  theirs 
again ! 


What  lack  of  goodly  company, 

When  masters  of  the  ancient  lyre 
Obey  my  call,  and  trace  for  me 

Their  words  of  mingled  tears  and  fire  ! 
I  talk  with  Bacon,  grave  and  wise, 
I  read  the  world  with  Pascal's  eyes ; 
And  priest  and  sage,  with  solemn  brows  austere, 
And  poets,  garland-bound,  the  Lords  of  Thought, 
draw  near. 


Methinks,  O  friend,  I  hear  thee  say, 

"  In  vain  the  human  heart  we  mock  ; 
Bring  living  guests  who  love  the  day, 

Not  ghosts  who  fly  at  crow  of  cock  ! 
The  herbs  we  share  with  flesh  and  blood, 
Are  better  than  ambrosial  food, 
With  laurelled  shades."  I  grant  it,  nothing  loath, 
But  doubly  blest  is  he  who  can  partake  of  both. 


He  who  might  Plato's  banquet  grace, 

Have  I  not  seen  before  me  sit, 
And  watched  his  puritanic  face, 

With  more  than  Eastern  wisdom  lit  ? 
Shrewd  mystic  !  who,  upon  the  back 
Of  his  Poor  Richard's  Almanack, 
Writing  the  Sun's  song,  the  Gen  too' s  dream, 
Links  Menu's  age  of  thought  to  Fulton's  age  o 
steam  ! 

XV. 

Here  too,  of  answering  love  secure, 

Have  I  not  welcomed  to  my  hearth 
The  gentle  pilgrim  troubadour, 

Whose  songs  have  girdled  half  the  earth  ; 
Whose  pages,  like  the  magic  mat 
Whereon  the  Eastern  lover  sat, 
Have  borne  me  over  Rhine-land's  purple  vines, 
And  Nubia's  tawny  sands,  and  Phrygia's  mour 
tain  pines ! 

XVI. 

And  he,  who  to  the  lettered  wealth 

Of  ages  adds  the  lore  unpriced, 
The  wisdom  and  the  moral  health, 

The  ethics  of  the  school  of  Christ ; 
The  statesman  to  his  holy  trust, 
As  the  Athenian  archon,  just, 
Struck  down,  exiled  like  him  for  truth  alone, 
Has  he  not  graced  my  home  with  beauty  all  h 


What  greetings  smile,  what  farewells  wave, 

What  loved  ones  enter  and  depart  ! 
The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

The  Heaven  -lent  treasures  of  the  heart  ! 
How  conscious  seems  the  frozen  sod 
And  beechen  slope  whereon  they  trod  ! 
The  oak-leaves  rustle,  and  the  dry  grass  bends 
Beneath  the  shadowy  feet  of  lost  or  absent  friend 

XVIII. 

Then  ask  not  why  to  these  bleak  hills 

I  cling,  as  clings  the  tufted  moss, 
To  bear  the  winter's  lingering  chills, 

The  mocking  spring's  perpetual  loss. 
I  dream  of  lands  where  summer  smiles, 
And  soft  winds  blow  from  spicy  isles, 
But  scarce  would  Ceylon's  breath  of  flowers  I 

sweet, 

Could  I  not  feel  thy  soil,  New  England,  at  m 
feet! 

XIX. 

At  times  I  long  for  gentler  skies, 

And  bathe  in  dreams  of  softer  air, 
But  homesick  tears  would  fill  the  eyes 

That  saw  the  Cross  without  the  Bear. 
The  pine  must  whisper  to  the  palm, 
The  north-wind  break  the  tropic  calm  ; 
And  with  the  dreamy  languor  of  the  Line, 
The  North's  keen  virtue  blend,  and  strength  I 
beauty  join. 


Better  to  stem  with  heart  and  hand 
The  roaring  tide  of  life,  than  lie, 
Unmindful,  on  its  flowery  strand, 
Of  God's  occasions  drifting  by  ! 
Better  with  naked  nerve  to  bear 
The  needles  of  this  goading  air, 
Than,  in  the  lap  of  sensual  ease,  forego 
The  godlike  power  to  do,  the  godlike  aim  to  knov 


LAST  WALKS  IN  AUTUMN. 


155 


•And  I,  who  watch  them  through  the  frosty  pane." 


XXI. 

Home  of  my  heart !  to  me  more  fair 

Than  gay  Versailles  or  Windsor'  shalls, 
The  painted,  shingly  town-house  where 
The  freeman's  vote  for  Freedom  falls  ! 
The  simple  roof  where  prayer  is  made, 
Than  Gothic  groin  and  colonnade  ; 
The  living  temple  of  the  heart  of  man, 
Than  Rome's  sky-mocking  vault,  or  many-spired 
Milan ! 


More  dear  thy  equal  village  schools, 

Where  rich  and  poor  the  Bible  read, 
Than  classic  halls  where  Priestcraft  rules, 

And  Learning  wears  the  chains  of  Creed  : 
Thy  glad  Thanksgiving,  gathering  in 
The  scattered  sheaves  of  home  and  kin, 
Than  the  mad  license  following  Lenten  pains, 
Or  holidays  of  elaves  who  laugh  and  dance  in 
chains. 


And  sweet  homes  nestle  in  these  dale0, 

And  perch  along  these  wooded  swells  ; 
And,  blest  beyond  Arcadian  vales, 

They  hear  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Here  dwells  no  perfect  man  sublime, 
Nor  woman  winged  before  her  time, 
But  with  the  faults  and  follies  of  the  race, 
Old  home-brad  virtues  held  their  not  unhonored 
place. 

XXIV. 

Here  manhood  struggles  for  the  sake 

Of  mother,  sister,  daughter,  wife, 
Tha  graces  and  the  loves  which  make 

The  music  of  the  march  of  life  ; 
And  woman,  in  her  daily  round 
Of  duty,  walks  on  holy  ground. 
No  unpaid  menial  tills  the  soil,  nor  here 
Is  the  bad  lesson  learned  at  human  rights  to  sneer. 


XXV. 

Then  let  the  icy  north-wind  blow 

The  trumpets  of  the  coming  storm, 
To  arrowy  sleet  and  blinding  snow 

Yon  slanting  lines  of  rain  transform. 
Young  hearts  shall  hail  the  drifted  cold, 
As  gayly  as  I  did  of  old  ; 

And  I,  who  watch  them  through  the  frosty  pane, 
Unenvious,  live  in  them  my  boyhood  o'er  again. 


And  I  will  trust  that  He  who  heeds 

The  life  that  hides  in  mead  and  wold, 
Who  hangs  yon  alder's  crimson  beads, 

And  stains  these  mosses  green  and  gold, 
Will  still,  as  He  hath  done,  incline 
His  gracious  care  to  me  and  mine  ; 
Grant  what  we  ask  aright,  from  wrong  debar, 
And,   as  the  earth  grows  dark,   make  brighter 
every  star  ! 


I  have  not  seen,  I  may  not  see, 

My  hopes  for  man  take  form  in  act, 
But  God  will  give  the  victory 

In  due  time  ;  in  that  faith  I  act. 
And  he  who  sees  the  future  sure, 
The  baffling  present  may  endure, 
And  bless,   meanwhile,    the  unseen  Hand    that 

leads 

The  heart's   desires  beyond  the  halting  step  of 
deeds. 


And  thou,  my  song,  I  send  thee  forth, 

Where  harsher  songs  of  mine  have  flown  ; 
Go,  find  a  place  at  home  and  hearth 

Where'er  thy  singer's  name  is  known  ; 
Revive  for  him  the  kindly  thought 
Of  friends  ;  and  they  who  love  him  not, 
Touched  by  some  strain  of  thine,  perchance  may 

.      take 
The  hand  he  proffers  all,  and  thank  him  for  thy 


156    THE  MAYFLOWERS.— BURIAL  OF  BARBOUR.— TO  PENNSYLVANIA. 


THE  MAYFLOWERS. 

The  trailing  arbutus,  or  mayflower,  grows  abundantly 
in  the  vicinity  of  Plymouth,  and  wan  the  first  flower  that 
greeted  the  Pilgrims  after  their  fearful  winter. 

SAD  Mayflower  !  watched  by  winter  stars, 

And  nursed  by  winter  gales, 
With  petals  of  the  sleeted  spars, 

Ana  leaves  of  frozen  sails  ! 

What  had  she  in  those  dreary  hours, 

Within  her  ice-rimmed  bay, 
In  common  with  the  wild- wood  flowers, 

The  first  sweet  smiles  of  May  ? 

Yet,  "  God  be  praised  !  "  the  Pilgrim  said, 

Who  saw  the  blossoms  peer 
Above  the  brown  leaves,  dry  and  dead, 

u  Behold  our  Mayflower  here  !  " 

' '  God  wills  it :  here  our  rest  shall  be, 

Our  years  of  wandering  o'er, 
For  us  the  Mayflower  of  the  sea 

Shall  spread  her  sails  no  more." 

O  sacred  flowers  of  faith  and  hope, 

As  sweetly  now  as  then 
Ye  bloom  on  many  a  birchen  slope, 

In  many  a  pine-dark  glen. 

Behind  the  sea-wall's  rugged  length, 

Unchanged,  your  leaves  unfold, 
Like  love  behind  the  manly  strength 

Of  the  brave  hearts  of  old. 

So  live  the  fathers  in  their  sons, 

Their  sturdy  faith  be  ours, 
And  ours  the  love  that  overruns 

Its  rocky  strength  with  flowers. 

The  Pilgrim's  wild  and  wintry  day 

Its  shadow  round  us  draws ; 
The  Mayflower  of  his  stormy  bay, 

Our  Freedom's  struggling  cause. 

But  warmer  suns  erelong  shall  bring 

To  life  the  frozen  sod  ; 
And,  through  dead  leaves  of  hope,  shall  spring 

Afresh  the  flowers  of  God  ! 


BURIAL  OF  BARBOUR. 

BEAR  him,  comrades,  to  his  grave ; 
Never  over  one  more  brave 

Shall  the  prairie  grasses  weep, 
In  the  ages  yet  to  come, 
When  the  millions  in  our  room, 

What  we  sow  in  tears,  shall  reap. 

Bear  him  up  the  icy  hill, 
With  the  Kansas,  frozen  still 

As  his  noble  heart,  below, 
And  the  land  he  came  to  till 
With  a  freeman's  thews  and  will, 

And  liis  poor  hut  roofed  with  snow  ! 

One  more  look  of  that  dead  face, 
Of  his  murder's  ghastly  trace  ! 

One  more  kiss,  O  widowed  ore  ! 
Lay  your  left  hands  on  his  brow, 
Lift  your  right  hands  up,  and  vow 

That  his  work  shall  yet  be  done. 


Patience,  friends  !     The  eye  of  God 
Every  path  by  Murder  trod 

Watches,  lidless,  day  and  night ; 
And  the  dead  man  in  his  shroud, 
And  his  widow  weeping  loud, 

And  our  hearts,  are  in  his  sight. 

Every  deadly  threat  that  swells 
With  the  roar  of  gambling  hells, 

Every  brutal  jest  and  jeer, 
Every  wicked  thought  and  plan 
Of  the  cruel  heart  of  man, 

Though  but  whispered,  He  can  hear  ! 

We  in  suffering,  they  in  crime, 
Wait  the  just  award  of  time, 

Wait  the  vengeance  that  is  due ; 
Not  in  vain  a  heart  shall  break, 
Not  a  tear  for  Freedom's  sake 

Fall  unheeded  :  God  is  true. 

While  the  flag  with  stars  bedecked 
Threatens  where  it  should  protect, 

And  the  Law  shakes  hands  with  Crime, 
What  is  left  us  but  to  wait, 
Match  our  patience  to  our  fate, 

And  abide  the  better  time  ? 

Patience,  friends  !     The  human  heart 
Everywhere  shall  take  our  part, 

Everywhere  for  us  shall  pray  ; 
On  our  side  are  nature's  laws, 
And  God's  life  is  in  the  cause 

That  we  suffer  for  to-day. 

Well  to  suffer  is  divine  ; 

Pass  the  watchword  down  the  line, 

Pass  the  countersign  :   "  ENDURE." 
Not  to  him  who  rashly  dares, 
But  to  him  who  nobly  bears, 

Is  the  victor's  garland  sure. 

Frozen  earth  to  frozen  breast, 
Lay  our  slain  one  down  to  rest ; 

Lay  him  down  in  hope  and  faith, 
And  above  the  broken  sod, 
Once  again,  to  Freedom's  God, 

Pledge  ourselves  for  life  or  death. 

That  the  State  whose  walls  we  lay, 
In  our  blood  and  tears,  to-day, 

Shall  be  free  from  bonds  of  shame 
And  our  goodly  land  untrod 
By  the  feet  of  Slavery,  shod  , 

With  cursing  as  with  flame  ! 

Plant  the  Buckeye  on  his  grave, 
For  the  hunter  of  the  slave 

In  its  shadow  cannot  rest ; 
And  let  martyr  mound  and  tree 
Be  our  pledge  and  guaranty 

Of  the  freedom  of  the  West ! 


TO  PENNSYLVANIA. 

O  STATE  prayer-founded  !  never  hung 
Such  choice  upon  a  people's  tongue, 

Such  power  to  bless  or  ban, 
As  that  which  makes  thy  whisper  Fate, 
For  which  on  thee  the  centuries  wait. 

And  destinies  of  man  ! 

Across  thy  Alleghanian  chain, 
With  groanings  from  a  land  in  pain, 

The  west-w:nd  find  its  way  ; 
Wild-wailing  from  Missouri's  flood 
The  crying  of  thy  children's  blood 

Is  in  thy  ears  to-day  ! 


THE  PASS  OF  THE  SIERRA. 


137 


Up,  men  !"  he  cried,  "yon  rocky  cone, 
To-day,  please  God,  we  '11  pass." 


And  unto  thee  in  Freedom's  hour 
Of  sorest  need  God  gives  the  power 

To  ruin  or  to  save  ; 
To  wound  or  heal,  to  blight  or  bless 
With  fertile  field  or  wilderness, 

A  free  home  or  a  grave  ! 

Then  let  thy  virtue  match  the  crime, 
Rise  to  a  level  with  the  time  ; 

And,  if  a  son  of  thine 
Betray  or  tempt  thee,  Brutus-like 
For  Fatherland  and  Freedom  strike 

As  Justice  gives  the  sign. 

Wake,  sleeper,  from  thy  dream  of  ease, 
The  great  occasion's  forelock  seize ; 

And,  let  the  north-wind  strong, 
And  golden  leaves  of  autumn,  be 
Thy  coronal  of  Victory 

And  thy  triumphal  song. 

IQth  mo.,  1856. 


THE  PASS  OF  THE  SIERRA. 

ALL  night  above  their  rocky  bed 
They  saw  the  stars  march  slow  ; 

The  wild  Sierra  overhead, 
The  desert's  death  below. 

The  Indian  from  his  lodge  of  bark, 

The  gray  bear  from  his  den, 
Beyond  their  camp-fire's  wall  of  dark, 

Glared  on  the  mountain  men. 

Still  upward  turned,  with  anxious  strain, 

Their  leader's  sleepless  eye, 
Where  splinters  of  the  mountain  chain 

Stood  back  against  the  sky. 


The  night  wanod  slow  :  at  last,  a  glow, 

A  gleam  of  sudden  fire, 
Shot  up  behind  the  walls  of  snow, 

And  tipped  each  icy  spire. 

u  Up,  men  !  "  he  cried,  "yon  rocky  coner 
To-day,  please  God,  we  '11  pass, 

And  look  from  Winter's  frozen  throne 
On  Summer's  flowers  and  grass  !  " 

Tliey  set  their  faces  to  the  blast, 

They  trod  the  eternal  snow, 
And  faint,  worn,  bleeding,  hailed  at  last 

T.ie  promised  land  below. 

Behind,  they  saw  the  snow-cloud  tossed 

By  many  an  icy  horn  ; 
Before,  warm  valleys,  wood-embossed, 

And  green  with  vines  and  corn. 

They  left  the  Winter  at  their  backs 

To  flap  his  baffled  wing, 
And  downward,  with  the  cataracts, 

Leaped  to  the  lap  of  Spring. 

Strong  leader  of  that  mountain  band, 

Another  task  remains, 
To  break  from  Slavery's  desert  land 

A  path  to  Freedom's  plains. 

The  winds  are  wild,  the  way  is  drear, 
Yet,  flashing  through  the  night, 

Lo  !  icy  ridge  and  rocky  spear 
Blaze  out  in  morning  light ! 

Rise  up,  FKEMONT  !  and  go  before ; 

The  Hour  must  have  its  Man  ; 
Put  on  the  hunting-shirt  once  more, 

And  lead  in  Freedom's  van  ! 

Sthmo.,  1856. 


158 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  FINLAND.— A  LAY  OF  OLD  TIME. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  FINLAND.' 

ACROSS  the  frozen  marshes 

The  winds  of  autumn  blow, 
And  the  fen-lands  of  the  Wetter 

Are  white  with  early  snow. 

But  where  the  low,  gray  headlands 

Look  o'er  the  Baltic  brine, 
A  bark  is  sailing  in  the  track 

Of  England's  battle-line . 

No  wares  hath  she  to  barter 
For  Bothnia's  fish  and  grain  ; 

She  sailebh  not  for  pleasure, 
She  saileth  not  for  gain . 

But  still  by  isle  or  mainland 
She  drops  her  anchor  down, 

Where'er  the  British  cannon 
Rained  fire  on  tower  and  town. 

Outspake  the  ancient  Amtman, 

At  the  gate  of  Helsingf  ors  : 
"Why  comes  this  ship  a-spying 

In  the  track  of  England's  wars  ?  " 

'"God  bless  her,"  said  the  coast-guard,- 
"God  bless  the  ship,  I  say. 

The  holy  angels  trim  the  sails 
That  speed  her  on  her  way  ! 

41  Where'er  she  drops  her  anchor, 

The  peasant's  heart  is  glad  ; 
Whsre'er  she  spreads  her  parting  sail, 

The  peasant's  heart  is  sad. 

'•Each  wasted  town  and  hamlet 

She  visits  to  restore  ; 
To  roof  the  shattered  cabin, 

And  feed  the  starving  poor . 

"  The  sunken  boats  of  fishers, 
The  foraged  beeves  and  grain, 

The  spoil  of  flake  and  storehouse, 
The  good  ship  brings  again. 

"  And  so  to  Finland's  sorrow 

The  sweet  amend  is  made, 
As  if  the  healing  hand  of  Christ 

Upon  her  wounds  were  laid  !  " 

Then  said  the  gray  old  Amtman, 

uThe  will  of  God  be  done  ! 
The  battle  lost  by  England's  hate, 

By  England's  love  is  won  ! 

'  '•  We  braved  the  iron  tempest 
That  thundered  on  our  shore  ; 

But  when  did  kindness  fail  to  find 
The  key  to  Finland's  door  ? 

u  No  more  from  Aland's  ramparts 

Shall  warning  signal  come, 
Nor  startled  Sweaborg  hear  again 

The  roll  of  midnight  drum. 

"  Beside  our  fierce  Black  Eagle 
The  Dove  of  Peace  shall  rest ; 

And  in  the  mouths  of  cannon 
Th3  sea-bird  make  her  nest . 

"For Finland,  looking  seaward, 

No  coming  foe  shall  scan  ; 
And  the  holy  bells  of  Abo 

Shall  ring,  l  Good- will  to  man  ! ' 


"  Then  row  thy  boat,  O  fisher  ! 

In  peace  on  lake  and  bay  ; 
And  thou,  young  maiden,  dance  again 

Around  the  poles  of  May  ! 

Sit  down,  old  men,  together, 
Old  wives,  in  quiet  spin  ; 
Henceforth  the  Anglo-Saxon 
Is  the  brother  of  the  Finn !  " 


A  LAY  OF  OLD  TIME. 

WRITTEN  FORT  HE  ESSEX  COUNTY  AGRICULTURAL 
FAIR. 

ONE  morning  of  the  first  sad  Fall, 

Poor  Adam  and  his  bride 
Sat  in  the  shade  of  Eden's  wall — 

But  on  the  outer  side. 

She,  blushing  in  her  fig-leaf  suit 

For  the  chaste  garb  of  old ; 
He,  sighing  o'er  his  bitter  fruit 

For  Eden's  drupes  of  gold. 

Behind  them,  smiling  in  the  morn, 

Their  forfeit  garden  lay, 
Before  them,  wild  with  rock  and  thorn, 

The  desert  stretched  away. 

Thay  heard  the  air  above  them  fanned, 

A  light  step  on  the  sward, 
And  lo  !  they  saw  before  them  stand 

The  angel  of  the  Lord  ! 

"  Arise,"  he  said,  "  why  look  behind, 

When  hope  is  all  before, 
And  patient  hand  and  willing  mind, 

Your  loss  may  yet  restore  V 

"  I  leave  with  you  a  spell  whose  power 

Can  make  the  desert  glad, 
And  call  around  you  fruit  and  flower 

As  fair  as  Eden  had . 

' '  I  clothe  your  hands  with  power  to  lift 

The  curse  from  off  your  soil ; 
Your  very  doom  shall  seem  a  gift, 

Your  loss  a  gain  through  Toil. 

"Go,  cheerful  as  yon  humming-bees, 

To  labor  as  to  play." 
White  glimmering  over  Eden's  trees 

The  angel  passed  away. 

The  pilgrims  of  the  world  went  forth 

Obedient  to  the  word, 
And  found  where'er  they  tilled  the  earth 

A  garden  of  the  Lord  ! 

The  thorn-tree  cast  its  evil  fruit 
And  blushed  with  plum  and  pear, 

And  seeded  grass  and  trodden  root 
Grew  sweet  beneath  their  care. 

We  share  our  primal  parents'  fat  3, 

And  in  our  turn  and  day, 
Look  back  on  Eden's  s  worded  gate 

As  sad  and  lost  as  they. 

But  still  for  us  his  native  skies 

The  pitying  Angel  leaves, 
And  leads  through  Toil  to  Paradise 

New  Adams  and  new  Eves  ! 


WHAT  OF  THE  DAY?— THE  FIRST  FLOWERS.— MY  NAMESAKE. 


159 


WHAT  OF  THE  DAY? 

A  SOUND  of  tumult  troubles  all  the  air, 

Like  the  low  thunders  of  a  sultry  sky 
Far-rolling  ere  the  downright  lightnings  glare  ; 

The  hills  blaze  red  with  warnings;  foes  draw 
nigh, 

Treading  the  dark  with  challenge  and  reply. 
Behold  the  burden  of  the  prophet's  vision,— 
The  gathering  hosts,— the  Valley  of  Decision, 

Dask  with  the  wings  of  eagles  wheeling  o'er. 
Day  of  the  Lord,  of  darkness  and  not  light ! 

It  breaks  in  thunder  and  the  whirlwind's  roar ! 
Even  so,  Father  !     L?t  Thy  will  be  done.— 
Turn  and  o'erturn,  end  what  Thou  hast  begun 
In  judgment  or  in  mercy  :  as  for  me, 
If  but  the  least  and  frailest,  let  me  be 
Evermore  numbered  with  the  truly  free 
Who  find  Thy  service  perfect  liberty  ! 
I  fain  would  thank  Thee  that  my  mortal  life 

Has  reached  the  hour  (albeit  through  care  and 

pain) 
When  Good  and  Evil,  as  for  final  strife, 

Close  dim  and  vast  on  Armageddon's  plain  ; 
And  Michael  and  his  angels  once  again 

Drive  howling  back  the  Spirits  of  the  Night. 
O  for  the  faith  to  read  the  signs  aright 
And,  from  the  angle  of  thy  perfect  sight, 

See  Truth's  white  banner  floating  on  before  ; 

And  the  Good  Causa,  despite  of  venal  friends, 

And  base  expedients,  move  to  noble  ends ; 

See    Peace    with    Freedom    make    to    Time 

amends, 

And,  through  its  cloud  of  dust,  the  threshing- 
floor, 

Flailed  by  the  thunder,  heaped  with  chaffless 
grain  ! 

1857. 


THE  FIRST  FLOWERS. 

FOR  ages  on  our  river  borders, 
These  tassels  in  their  tawny  bloom, 

And  willowy  studs  of  downy  silver, 
Have  prophesied  of  Spring  to  come. 

For  ages  have  the  unbound  waters 

Smiled  on  them  from  their  pebbly  hem, 

And  the  clear  carol  of  the  robin 

And  song  of  bluebird  welcomed  them. 

But  never  yet  from  smiling  river, 
Or  song  of  early  bird,  have  they 

Been  greeted  with  a  gladder  welcome 
Than  whispers  from  my  heart  to-day. 

Tiiey  break  the  spell  of  cold  and  darkness, 
The  weary  watch  of  sleepless  pain  ; 

And  from  my  heart,  as  from  the  river, 
The  ice  of  winter  melts  again. 

Thanks,  Mary  !  for  this  wild-wood  token 
Of  Freya's  footsteps  drawing  near  ; 

Almost,  as  in  the  rune  of  Asgard, 
The  growing  of  the  grass  I  hear. 

It  is  as  if  the  pine-trees  called  me 
From  ceiled  room  and  silent  books, 

To  see  the  dance  of  woodland  shadows, 
And  hear  the  song  of  April  brooks  ! 

As  in  the  old  Teutonic  ballad 
Live  singing  bird  and  flowering  tree, 

Together  live  in  bloom  and  music, 
I  blend  in  song  thy  flowers  and  thee. 

Earth's  rocky  tablets  bear  forever 

The  dint  of  rain  and  small  bird's  track  : 


Who  knows  but  that  my  idle  verses 
May  leave  some  trace  by  Merrimack  ! 

The  bird  that  trod  the  mellow  layers 
Of  the  young  earth  is  sought  in  vain ; 

The  cloud  is  gone  that  wove  the  sandstone, 
From  God's  design,  with  threads  of  rain 

So,  when  this  fluid  age  we  live  in 

Shall  stiffen  round  my  careless  rhyme, 

Who  made  the  vagrant  tracks  may  puzzle 
The  savans  of  the  coming  time  : 

And,  following  out  their  dim  suggestions, 
Some  idly-curious  hand  may  draw 

My  doubtful  portraiture,  as  cuvier 
Drew  fish  and  bird  from  fin  and  claw. 

And  maidens  in  the  far-off  twilights, 
Singing  my  words  to  breeze  and  stream, 

Shall  wonder  if  the  old-time  Mary 
Were  real,  or  the  rhymer's  dream  ! 

1st  3d  mo.,  1857. 


MY  NAMESAKE. 

You  scarcely  need  my  tardy  thanks, 
Who,  self-rewarded,  nurse  and  tend — 

A  green  leaf  on  your  own  Green  Banks — 
The  memory  of  your  friend. 

For  me,  no  wreath,  bloom-woven  hides 
The  sobered  brow  and  lessening  hair  : 

For  aught  I  know,  the  myrtled  sides 
Of  Helicon  are  bare. 

Their  scallop-shells  so  many  bring 

The  fabled  founts  of  song  to  try, 
They  've  drained,  for  aught  I  know,  the  spring 

Of  Aganippe  dry. 

Ah  well  '.—The  wreath  the  Muses  braid 
Proves  often  Folly's  cap  and  bell ; 

Methinks,  my  ample  beaver's  shade 
May  serve  my  turn  as  well. 

Let  Love's  and  Friendship's  tender  debt 

Be  paid  by  those  1  love  in  life. 
Why  should  the  unborn  critic  whet 

For  me  his  scalping-knife  ? 

Why  should  the  stranger  pear  and  pry 

One's  vacant  house  of  life  about, 
And  drag  for  curious  ear  and  eye 

His  faults  and  follies  out  ?  — 

Why  stuff,  for  fools  to  gaze  upon, 

With  chaff  of  words,  the  garb  he  wore, 

As  corn-husks  when  the  ear  is  gone 
Are  rustled  all  the  more  ? 

Let  kindly  Silence  close  again, 

The  picture  vanish  from  the  eye, 
And  on  the  dim  and  misty  main 

Let  the  small  ripple  die. 

Yet  not  the  less  I  own  your  claim 

To  grateful  thanks,  dear  friends  of  mine, 

Hang,  if  it  please  you  so,  my  name 
Upon  your  household  line. 

Let  Fame  from  brazen  lips  blow  wide 

Her  chosen  names,  I  envy  none  : 
A  mother's  love,  a  father's  pride, 

Shall  keep  alive  my  own  ! 

Still  shall  that  name  as  now  recall 

The  young  leaf  wet  with  morning  dew, 

The  glory  where  the  sunbeams  fall 
The  breezy  woodlands  through. 


160 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


That  name  shall  be  a  household  word, 

A  spell  to  waken  smile  or  sigh  ; 
In  many  an  evening  prayer  be  heard 

And  cradle  lullaby. 

And  thou,  dear  child,  in  riper  days 
When  asked  the  reason  of  thy  name, 

Shalt  answer  :  "One 't  were  vain  to  praise 
Or  censure  bore  the  same. 

u  Some  blamed  him,  some  believed  him  good, 
The  truth  lay  doubtless  'twixt  the  two, — 

He  reconciled  as  best  he  could 
Old  faith  and  fancies  new. 

"In  him  the  grave  and  playful  mixed, 

And  wisdom  held  with  folly  truce, 
And  Nature  compromised  betwixt 
Good  fellow  and  recluse. 

"He  loved  his  friends,  forgave  his  foes ; 

And,  if  his  words  were  harsh  at  times, 
He  spared  his  fellow-men, — his  blows 

Fell  only  on  their  crimes. 

"  He  loved  the  good  and  wise,  but  found 

His  human  heart  to  all  akin 
Who  met  him  on  the  common  ground 

Of  suffering  and  of  sin. 

"  Whate'er  his  neighbors  might  endure 
Of  pain  or  grief  his  own  became ; 

For  all  the  ills  he  could  not  cure 
He  held  himself  to  blame. 

u  His  good  was  mainly  an  intent, 
His  evil  not  of  forethought  done  ; 

The  work  he  wrought  was  rarely  meant 
Or  finished  as  begun. 

"  111  served  his  tides  of  feeling  strong 
To  turn  the  common  mills  of  use  ; 

And,  over  restless  wings  of  song, 
His  birthright  garb  hung  loose  ! 

"His  eye  was  beauty's  powerless  slave, 
And  his  the  ear  which  discord  pains  : 

Few  guessed  beneath  his  aspect  grave 
What  passions  strove  in  chains. 

"He  had  his  share  of  care  and  pain, 

No  holiday  was  life  to  him ; 
Still  in  the  heirloom  cup  we  drain 

The  bitter  drop  will  swim. 

"Yet  Heaven  was  kind,  and  hare  a  bird 
And  there  a  flower  beguiled  his  way  ; 

And,  cool,  in  summer  noons,  he  heard 
The  fountains  plash  and  play. 

"  On  all  his  sad  or  restless  moods 
The  patient  peace  of  Nature  stole ; 

The  quiet  of  the  fields  and  woods 
Sank  deep  into  his  soul. 

4 '  He  worshipped  as  his  fathers  did, 
And  kept  the  faith  of  childish  days, 

And,  howsoe'er  he  strayed  or  slid, 
He  loved  the  good  old  ways. 

"The  simple  tastes,  the  kindly  traits, 
The  tranquil  air,  and  gentle  speech, 

The  silence  of  the  soul  that  waits 
For  more  than  man  to  teach. 

"  The  cant  of  party,  school,  and  sect, 
Provoked  at  times  his  honest  scorn, 

And  Folly,  in  its  gray  respect, 
He  tossed  on  satire's  horn. 


' '  But  still  his  heart  was  full  of  awe 
And  reverence  for  all  sacred  things  ; 

And,  brooding  over  form  and  law, 
He  saw  the  Spirit's  wings  ! 

"Life's  mystery  wrapt  him  like  a  cloud ; 

He  heard  far  voices  mock  his  own, 
The  sweep  of  wings  unseen,  the  loud, 

Long  roll  of  waves  unknown. 

"The  arrows  of  his  straining  sight 
Fell  quenched  in  darkness  ;  priest  and  sage, 

Like  lost  guides  calling  left  and  right, 
Perplexed  his  doubtful  age. 

"  Like  childhood,  listening  for  the  sound 
Of  its  dropped  pebbles  in  the  well, 

All  vainly  down  the  dark  profound 
His  brief -lined  plummet  fell. 

"So,  scattering  flowers  with  pious  pains 

On  old  beliefs,  of  later  creeds, 
Which  claimed  a  place  in  Truth's  domains, 

He  asked  the  title-deeds. 

"  He  saw  the  old -time's  groves  and  shrines 
In  the  long  distance  fair  and  dim  ; 

And  heard,  like  sound  of  far-off  pines, 
The  century-mellowed  hymn  ! 

"He  dared  not  mock  the  Dervish  whirl, 
The  Brahmin's  rite,  the  Lama's  spell ; 

God  knew  the  heart ;  Devotion's  pearl 
Might  sanctify  the  shell. 

"  While  others  trod  the  altar  stairs 

He  faltered  like  the  publican  ; 
And,  while  they  praised  as  saints,  his  prayers 

Were  those  of  sinful  man. 

"  For,  awed  by  Sinai's  Mount  of  Law, 
The  trembling  faith  alone  sufficed, 

That,  through  its  cloud  and  flame,  he  saw 
The  sweet,  sad  face  of  Christ  !— 

"  And  listening,  with  his  forehead  bowed, 

Heard  the  Divine  compassion  fill 
The  pauses  of  the  trump  and  cloud 

With  whispers  small  and  still. 

"The  words  he  spake,  the  thoughts  he  penned, 
Are  mortal  as  his  hand  and  brain, 

But,  if  they  served  the  Master's  end, 
He  has  not  lived  in  vain  !  " 

Heaven  make  thee  better  than  thy  name, 
Child  of  my  friends  ! — For  thee  I  crave 

What  riches  never  bought,  nor  fame 
To  mortal  longing  gave. 

I  pray  the  prayer  of  Plato  old  : 

God  make  thee  beautiful  within. 
And  let  thine  eyes  the  good  behold 

In  everything  save  sin ! 

Imagination  held  in  check 

To  serve,  not  rule,  thy  poised  mind  ; 
Tny  Reason,  at  the  frown  or  beck 

Of  Conscience,  loose  or  bind. 

No  dreamer  thou,  but  real  all, — 

Strong  manhood  crowning  vigorous  youth  ; 
Life  made  by  duty  epical 

And  rhythmic  with  the  truth. 

So  shall  that  life  the  fruitage  yield 
Which  trees  of  healing  only  give, 

And  green-leafed  in  the  Eternal  field 
Of  God,  forever  live 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER. 


161 


HOME  BALLADS. 


I860. 


I  CALL  the  old  time  back  .  I  bring  these  lays 
To  thee,  in  memory  of  the  summer  days 
When,  by  our  native  streams  and  forest  ways, 

We  dreamed  them  over  ;  while  the  rivulets  made 
Songs  of  their  own,  and  the  great  pine-trees  laid 
On  warm  noon-lights  the  masses  of  their  shade. 

And  she  was  with  us,  living  o'er  again 

Her  life  in  ours,  despite  of  years  and  pain, — 

The  autumn's  brightness  after  latter  rain. 

Beautiful  in  her  holy  peace  as  one 

Who  stands,  at  evening,  when  the  work  is  done, 

Glorified  in  the  setting  of  the  sun  ! 

Her  memory  makes  our  common  landscape  seem 
Fairer  than  any  of  which  painters  dream, 
Lights  the  brown  hills  and  sings  in  every  stream  ; 

For  she  whose  speech  was  always  truth's  pure 

gold 

Heard,  not  unpleased,  its  simple  legends  told 
And  loved  with  us  the  beautiful  and  old. 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER. 

IT  was  the  pleasant  harvest  time, 
When  cellar-bins  are  closely  stowed, 
And  garrets  bend  beneath  their  load, 

And  the  old  swallow-haunted  barns — 
Brown-gabled,  long,  and  full  of  seams 
Through  which  the  moted  sunlight  streams, 

And  winds  blow  freshly  in,  to  shake 
The  red  plumes  of  the  roosted  cocks, 
And  the  loose  hay -mow's  scented  locks — 

Are  filled  with  summer's  ripened  stores, 
Its  odorous  grass  and  barley  sheaves, 
From  their  low  scaffolds  to  their  eaves. 

On  Esek  Harden's  oaken  floor, 
With  many  an  autumn  threshing  worn, 
Lay  the  heaped  ears  of  unhusked  corn. 

And  thither  came  young  men  and  maids, 
Beneath  a  moon  that,  large  and  low, 
Lit  that  sweet  eve  of  long  ago. 

They  took  their  places  ;  some  by  chance, 
And  others  by  a  merry  voice 
Or  sweet  smile  guided  to  their  choice. 

How  pleasantly  the  rising  moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked    on    them    through    the    great    elm- 
boughs  ! — 

On  sturdy  boyhood  sun-embrowned, 
On  girlhood  with  its  solid  curves 
Of  healthful  strength  and  painless  nerves  ! 

And  jests  went  round,  and  laughs  that  made 
The  house-dog  answer  with  his  howl, 
And  kept  astir  the  barn-yard  fowl ; 

11 


And  quaint  old  songs  their  fathers  sung, 
In  Derby  dales  and  Yorkshire  moors, 
Ere  Norman  William  trod  their  shores  ; 

And  tales,  whose  merry  license  shook 
The  fat  sides  of  the  Saxon  thane, 
Forgetful  of  the  hovering  Dane  ! 

But  still  the  sweetest  voice  was  mute 
.    That  river-valley  ever  heard 

From  lip  of  maid  or  throat  of  bird  ; 

For  Mabel  Martin  sat  apart, 

And  let  the  hay-mow's  shadow  fall 
Upon  the  loveliest  face  of  alL 

She  sat  apart,  as  one  forbid, 
Who  knew  that  none  would  condescend 
To  own  the  Witch- wife's  child  a  friend. 

The  seasons  scarce  had  gone  their  round, 
Since  curious  thousands  thronged  to  see 
Her  mother  on  the  gallows-tree ; 

And  mocked  the  palsied  limbs  of  age, 
That  faltered  on  the  fatal  stairs, 
And  wan  lip  trembling  with  its  prayers  ! 

Few  questioned  of  the  sorrowing  child, 
Or,  when  they  saw  the  mother  die, 
Dreamed  of  the  daughter's  agony. 

They  went  up  to  their  homes  that  day, 
As  men  and  Christians  justified  : 
God  willed  it,  and  the  wretch  had  died ! 

Dear  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 
Forgive  our  faith  in  cruel  lies, — 
Forgive  the  blindness  that  denies  ! 

Forgive  Thy  creature  when  he  takes, 
For  the  all-perfect  love  Thou  art, 
Some  grim  creation  of  his  heart. 

Cast  down  our  idols,  overturn 
Our  bloody  altars  ;  let  us  see 
Thyself  in  thy  humanity  ! 

Poor  Mabel  from  her  mother's  grave 
Crept  to  her  desolate  hearth-stone, 
And  wrestled  with  her  fate  alone  ; 

With  love,  and  anger,  and  despair, 
The  phantoms  of  disordered  sense, 
The  awful  doubts  of  Providence  ! 

The  school-boys  jeered  her  as  they  passed,, 
And,  when  she  sought  the  house  of  prayer, 
Her  mother's  curse  pursued  her  there. 

And  still  o'er  many  a  neighboring  door 
She  saw  the  horseshoe's  curvdd  charm, 
To  guard  against  her  mother's  harm  ; — 

That  mother,  poor,  and  sick,  and  lame, 
Who  daily,  by  the  old  arm-chair, 
Folded  her  withered  hands  in  prayer ; — 

Who  turned,  in  Salem' s  dreary  jail, 
Her  worn  old  Bible  o'er  and  o'er, 
When  her  dim  eyes  could  read  no  more  ! 


162 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER. 


"  So  in  the  shadow  Mabel  sits ; 
Untouched  by  mirth  she  sees  and  hears. 
Her  smile  is  sadder  than  her  tears." 


Sore  tried  and  pained,  the  poor  girl  kept 
Her  faith,  and  trusted  that  her  way, 
So  dark,  would  somewhere  meet  the  day. 

And  still  her  weary  wheel  went  round 
Day  after  day,  with  no  relief  ; 
Small  leisure  have  the  poor  for  grief. 

So  in  the  shadow  Mable  sits  ; 

Untouched  by  mirth  she  sees  and  hears, 
Her  smile  is  sadder  than  her  tears. 

But  cruel  eyes  have  found  her  out, 
And  cruel  lips  repeat  her  name, 
And  taunt  her  with  her  mother's  shame. 

She  answered  not  with  railing  words, 
But  drew  her  apron  o'er  her  face, 
And,  sobbing,  glided  from  the  place. 

And  only  pausing  at  the  door, 
Her  sad  eyes  met  the  troubled  gaze 
Of  one  who,  in  her  better  days, 

Had  been  her  warm  and  steady  friend, 
Ere  yet  her  mother's  doom  had  made 
Even  Esek  Harden  half  afraid. 

He  felt  that  mute  appeal  of  tears, 
And,  starting,  with  an  angry  frown 
Hushed  all  the  wicked  murmurs  down. 

"Good  neighbors  mine,"  he  sternly  said, 
"  This  passes  harmless  mirth  or  jest ; 
I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest. 

"  She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child  ; 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 

u  Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace  ; 
1  never  knew  her  harm  a  fly, 
And  witch  or  not,  God  knows, — not  I. 

"  I  know  who  swore  her  life  away ; 
And,  as  God  lives,  I  'd  not  condemn 
An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them. " 

The  broadest  lands  in  all  the  town, 
The  skill  to  guide,  the  power  to  awe, 
Were  Harden's  ;  and  his  word  was  la\v. 


None  dared  withstand  him  to  his  face, 
But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside  : 
"  The  little  witch  is  evil-eyed  ! 

"  Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow, 
Or  witched  a  churn  or  dairy-pan  ; 
But  she,  forsooth,  must  charm  a  man  !  " 

Poor  Mabel,  in  her  lonely  home, 
Sat  by  the  window's  narrow  pane, 
White  in  the  moonlight's  silver  rain. 

The  river,  on  its  pebbled  rim, 

Made  music  such  as  childhood  knew  ; 
The  door-yard  tree  was  whispered  through 

By  voices  such  as  childhood's  ear 
Had  heard  in  moonlights  long  ago  ; 
And  through  the  willow-boughs  below 

She  saw  the  rippled  waters  shine  ; 
Beyond,  in  waves  of  shade  and  light 
The  hills  rolled  off  into  the  night. 

Sweet  sounds  and  pictures  mocking  so 
The  sadness  of  her  human  lot, 
She  saw  and  heard,  but  heeded  not. 

She  strove  to  drown  her  sense  of  wrong, 
'    And,  in  her  old  and  simple  way, 
To  teach  her  bitter  heart  to  pray. 

Poor  child  !  the  prayer,  begun  in  faith, 
Grew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery  :   "Let  me  die! 

"  Oh  !  take  me  from  the  scornful  eyes, 
And  hide  me  where  the  err  el  speech 
And  mocking  finger  may  not  reach  ! 

u  I  dare  not  breathe  my  mother's  name  : 
A  daughter's  right  J  dare  not  crave 
To  weep  above  her  unblest  grave ! 

"  Let  me  not  live  until  my  heart, 
With  few  to  pity,  and  with  none 
To  love  me,  hardens  into  stone. 

"  O  God  !  have  mercy  on  thy  child, 
Whose  faith  in  Thee  grows  weak  and  small, 
And  take  me  ere  I  lose  it  all !  " 


THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN. 


163 


A  shadow  on  the  moonlight  fell, 

And  murmuring  wind  and  wave  became 
A  voice  whose  burden  was  her  name. 

Had  then  God  heard  her  ?  Had  he  sent 
His  angel  down  ?  In  flesh  and  blood, 
Before  her  Esek  Harden  stood  ! 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm  : 

"•  Dear  Mabel,  this  no  more  shall  be ; 
Who  scoffs  at  you,  must  scoff  at  me. 

u  You  know  rough  Esek  Harden  well ; 
And  if  he  seems  no  suitor  gay, 
And  if  his  hair  is  touched  with  gray, 

"  The  maiden  grown  shall  never  find 
His  heart  less  warm  than  when  she  smiled, 
Upon  his  knees,  a  little  child  !  " 

Her  tears  of  grief  were  tears  of  joy. 
As,  folded  in  his  strong  embrace, 
She  looked  in  Esek  Harden's  face. 

"  O  truest  friend  of  all !  "  she  said, 

"God  bless  you  for  your  kindly  thought, 
And  make  me  worthy  of  my  lot !  " 

He  led  her  through  his  dewy  fields, 
To  where  the  swinging  lanterns  glowed, 
And  through  the  doors  the  buskers  showed. 

'•Good  friends  and  neighbors  !  "  Esek  said, 
"  I  'm  weary  of  this  lonely  life  ; 
In  Mabel  see  my  chosen  wife  ! 

"  She  greets  you  kindly,  one  and  all ; 
The  past  is  past,  and  all  offence 
Falls  harmless  from  her  innocence. 

"  Henceforth  she  stands  no  more  alone  ; 
You  know  what  Esek  Harden  is  : — 
He  brooks  no  wrong  to  him  or  his. " 

Now  let  the  merriest  tales  be  told, 
And  let  the  sweetest  songs  be  sung 
That  ever  made  the  old  heart  young  ! 

For  now  the  lost  has  found  a  home ; 
And  a  lone  hearth  shall  brighter  burn, 
As  all  the  household  joys  return  ! 

O,  pleasantly  the  harvest-moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great  elm-boughs ! 

On  Mabel's  curls  of  golden  hair, 
On  Esek's  shaggy  strength  it  fell ; 
And  the  wind  whispered,  u  It  is  well !  " 


THE  GARRISON   OF  CAPE    ANN. 

FUOM  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far  beneath 

the  tent-like  span 
Of  the  sky,  I  see  the  white  gleam  of  the  headland 

of  Cape  Ann. 
Well  I  know  its  coves  and  beaches  to  the  ebb-tide 

glimmering  down, 
And    the   white- walled   hamlet   children    of    its 

ancient  fishing-town. 

Long  has  passed  the  summer  morning,  and  its 

memory  waxes' old, 
When  along  yon  br'eezy'headlands  with  a  pleasant 

friend  I  strolled. 


Ah !  the   autumn  sun  is  shining,  and  the  ocean 

wind  blows  cool, 
And  the  golden-rod  and  aster  bloom  around  thy 

grave,  Rantoul ! 

With  the  memory  of  that  morning  by  the  summer 

A  wild  and  wondrous    story,    by  the    younger 

Mather  penned, 
In  that  quaint  Magnolia  Christi,  with  all  strange 

and  marvellous  things, 
Heaped  up  huge  and-  undigested,  like  the  chaos 

Ovid  sings. 

Dear  to  me  these  far,  faint  glimpses  of  the  dual 

life  of  old, 
Inward,  grand  with  awe  and  reverence  ;  outward, 

mean  and  coarse  and  cold  ; 
I  Gleams  of  mystic  beauty  playing  over  dull  and 

vulgar  clay, 
Golden-threaded    fancies    weaving  in  a  web  of 

hodden  gray. 

The  great  eventful  Present  hides  the  Past;  but 
through  the  din 

Of  its  loud  life  hints  and  echoes  from  the  life  be 
hind  steal  in ; 

And  the  lore  of  home  and  fireside,  and  the  legen 
dary  rhyme, 

I  Make  the  task  of  duty  lighter  which  the  true  man 
owes  his  time. 

So,  with  something  of  the  feeling  which  the  Cov 
enanter  knew, 

When  with  pious  chisel  wandering  Scotland's 
moorland  graveyards  through, 

From  the  graves  of  old  traditions  I  parb  the 
black  berry- vines, 

Wipe  the  moss  from  off  the  headstones,  and  re 
touch  the  faded  lines. 


Where  the  sea-waves  back  and  forward,  hoarse 
with  rolling  pebbles,  ran, 

The  garrison-house  stood  watching  on  the  gray 
rocks  of  Cape  Ann  ; 

On  its  windy  sits  uplifting  gabled  roof  and  pali 
sade, 

And  rough  walls  of  unhewn  timber  with  the 
moonlight  overlaid. 

On  his  slow  round  walked  the  sentry,  south  and 

eastward  looking  forth 
O'er  a  rude  and  broken  coast-line,   white  with 

breakers  stretching  north, — 
Wood  and  rock  and  gleaming  sand-drift,  jagged 

capes,  with  bush  and  tree, 
Leaning  inland  from  tha  smiting  of  the  wild  and 

gusty  sea. 

Before  the  deep-mouthed  chimney,  dimly  lit  by 

dying  brands, 

Twenty  soldiers  sat  and  waited,  with  their  mus 
kets  in  their  hands  ; 
j  On    the     rough-hewn  oaken  table  the  venison 

haunch  was  shared, 

•  And  the  pewter  tankard  circled  slowly  round  from 
fceard  to  beard. 

Long  they  sat  and  talked  together, — talked  of 
wizards  Satan-sold  ;* 

Of  all  ghostly  sights  and  noises,— signs  and  won 
ders  manifold ; 

Of  the  spectre-ship  of  Salem,  with  the  dead  men 

in  her  shrouds, 

|  Sailing  sheer  above  the  water,    in  the  loom  of 
morning  clouds ; 


164 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL. 


Of  the  marvellous  valley  hidden  in  the  depths  of  Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching  of  the  spectres 

Gloucester  woods,  round  the  wall, 

Full  of  plants  that  love  the  summer, — blooms  of  But  a  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote  the  ears 

warmer  latitudes  ;  and  hearts  of  all, — 

Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by  the  tropic's  Howls  of  rage  and  shrieks  of  anguish  !     Nevei 

flowery  vines,  after  mortal  man 

And  the  white  magnolia-blossoms  star  the  twi-  Saw   the   ghostly   leaguers   marching   round  the 

light  of  the  pines  !  block-house  of  Cape  Ann. 


But  their  voices  sank  yet  lower,  sank  to  husky 

tones  of  fear, 
As  they  spake  of  present  tokens  of  the  powers  of 

evil  near ; 
Of  a  spectral  host,  defying  stroke  of  steel  and  aim 

of  gun ; 
Never  yet  was  ball  to  slay  them  in  the  mould  of 

mortals  run ! 

Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalp-locks,  from 

the  midnight  wood  they  came, — 
Thrice  around  the  block-house  marching,  met, 

unharmed,  its  volleyed  flame ; 
Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture,  sunk  in 

earth  or  lost  in  air, 
All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the  moonlit 

sands  lay  bare. 

Midnight  came ;   from  out  the  forest  moved  a 

dusky  mass  that  soon 
Grew  to  warriors,  plumed  and  painted,  grimly 

marching  in  the  moon. 
"Ghosts  or  witches,"  said  the  captain,  "thus  I 

foil  the  Evil  One  !  " 
And  he  rammed  a  silver  button,  from  his  doublet, 

down  his  gun. 

Once  again  the  spectral  horror  moved  the  guarded 
wall  about ; 

Once  again  the  levelled  muskets  through  the  pali 
sades  flashed  out, 

With  that  deadly  a'm  the  squirrel  on  his  tree-top 
might  not  shun 

Nor  the  beach-bird  seaward  flying  with  his  slant 
wing  to  the  sun. 

Like  the  idle  rain  of  si  mmer  sped  the  harmless 

shower  of  lead. 
With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once  again  the 

phantoms  fled  ; 
Once  again,  without  a  shadow  on  the  sands  the 

moonlight  lay, 
And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it  diifted 

slowly  down  the  bay  ! 

"God  preserve  us!"  said  the  captain;  "never 
mortal  foes  were  there  ; 

They  have  vanished  with  their  leader,  Prince  and 
Power  of  the  air  ! 

Lay  aside  your  useless  weapons  ;  skill  and  prowess 
naught  avail ; 

They  who  do  the  Devil's  service  wear  their  mas 
ter's  coat  of  mail !  " 

So  the  night  grew  near  to  cock-crow,  when  again 

a  warning  call 
Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watching  round 

the  dusky  hall  : 
And  they  looked  to  flint  and  priming,  and  they 

longed  for  break  of  day  ; 
But  the  captain  closed  his  Bible  :  "  Let  us  cease 

from  man,  and  pray  !  " 

To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the  unseen  ! 

powers  seemed  nearT 
And  their  steadfast  strength  of  courage  struck  its 

roots  in  holy  fear. 
Every  hand  forsook  the  musket,  every  head  was 

bowed  and  bare, 
Every  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stones,  as  the 

captain  led  in  prayer. 


So  to  us  who  walk  in  summer  through  the  coo 

and  sea-blown  town, 
From  the  childhood  of  its  people  comes  the  soletm 

legend  down. 
Not  in  vain  the  ancient  fiction,  in  whose  mora 

lives  the  youth 
And  the  fitness  and  the  freshness  of  an  undecay 

ing  truth. 

Soon  or  late  to  all  our  dwellings  come  the  spectre 

of  the  mind, 
Doubts  and  fears  and  dread  forebodings,  in  tl: 

darkne:s  undefined  ; 
Round  us  throng  the  grim  projections   of  th 

heart  and  of  the  brain, 
And  our  pride  of  strength  is  weakness,  and  tl: 

cunning  hand  is  vain. 

In  the  dark  we  cry  like  children ;  and  no  answc 

from  on  high 
Breaks   tie   crystal   spheres   of   silence,    and  n 

white  wings  downward  fly  ; 
But  the  heavenly  help  we  pray  for  comes  to  faitl- 

and  not  to  sight, 
And  our  prayers  themselves  drive  backward  a 

the  spirits  of  the  night ! 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL 
1697. 

UP  and  down  the  village  streets 

Strange  are  the  form*  my  fancy  meets, 

For  the  thoughts  and  things  of  to-day  are  hid, 

And  through  the  veil  of  a  closed  lid 

The  ancient  worthies  I  see  again : 

I  hear  the  tap  of  the  elder's  cane, 

And  his  awful  periwig  1  see, 

And  the  silver  buckles  of  shoe  and  knee. 

Stately  and  slow,  with  thoughtf  ul  air, 

His  black  cap  hiding  his  whitened  hair, 

Walks  the  Judge  of  the  great  Assize, 

Samuel  Sewall  the  good  and  wise. 

His  face  with  lines  of  firmness  wrought, 

He  wears  the  look  of  a  man  imbought, 

Who  swears  to  his  hurt  and  changes  not; 

Yet,  touched  and  softened  nevertheless 

With  the  grace  of  Christian  gentleness, 

The  face  that  a  child  would  climb  to  kiss  ! 

True  and  tender  and  brave  and  just, 

That  man  might  honor  and  woman  trust. 

Toucl  ing  and  sad,  a  tale  is  told, 
Like  a  penitent  hymn  of  the  Psalmist  old, 
Of  the  fast  which  the  good  man  lifelong  kept 
With  a  haunting  sorrow  that  never  slept, 
As  the  circling  year  brought  round  the  time 
Of  an  error  that  left  the  bting  of  crime, 
When  he   sat  on  the  bench  of  the  witchcra" 

courts, 

With  the  laws  of  Moses  and  Hale's  Rf ports, 
And  spake,  in  the  name  of  both,  the  word 
That  gave  the  witch's  neck  to  the  cord, 
And  piled  the  oaken  planks  that  pressed 
The  feeble  life  from  the  warlock's  breast  ! 
All  the  day  long,  from  dawn  to  dawn. 
His  door  was  bolted,  his  curtain  drawn  ; 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE. 


165 


No  foot  on  his  silent  threshold  trod^, 
No  eye  looked  on  him  save  that  of  God, 
As  he  baffled  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  with  charms 
Of  penitent  tears,  and  prayers,  and  psalms, 
And,  with  precious  proofs  from  the  sacred  word 
Of  the  boundless  pity  and  love  of  the  Lord, 
His  faith  confirmed  and  his  trust  renewed 
That  the  sin  of  his  ignorance,  sorely  rued, 
Might  be  washed  away  in  the  mingled  flood 
Of  his  human  sorrow  and  Christ's  dear  blood  ! 

Green  forever  the  memory  be 
Of  the  Judge  of  the  old  Tneocracy, 
Whom  even  his  errors  glorified, 
Like  a  far-seen,  sunlit  mountain-side 
By  the  cloudy  shadows  which  o'er  it  glide  ! 
Honor  and  praise  to  the  Puritan 
Who  the  halting  step  of  his  age  outran, 
And,  seeing  the  infinite  worth  of  man 
In  the  priceless  gift  the  Fath3r  gave, 
In  the  infinite  love  that  stooped  to  save, 
Dared  not  brand  his  brother  a  slave  ! 
u  WTho  doth  such  wrong,"  he  was  wont  to  say, 
In  his  own  quaint,  picture-loving  way, 
"Flings  up  to  Heaven  a  hand-grenade 
Which  God  shall  cast  down  upon  his  head  !  " 

Widely  as  heaven  and  hell,  contrast 
That  brave  old  jurist  of  the  past 
And  the  cunning  trickstsr  and  knave  of  courts 
Who  the  holy  features  of  Truth  distorts,— 
R  ding  as  right  the  will  of  tho  strong, 
Poverty,  crime,  and  wdakness  wrong ; 
Wide-eared  to  power,  to  th3  wronged  and  w^ak 
Deaf  as  Egypt's  gods  of  leek  ; 
Scoffing  aside  at  party's  nod 
Order  of  nature  and  law  of  God ; 
For  whose  dabbled  ermine  respect  were  waste, 
Reverence  folly,  and  awe  misplaced  ; 
Justice  of  whom  't  were  vain  t)  seek 
As  from  Koordish  robber  or  Syrian  Sheik  ! 
O,  leave  the  wretch  to  his  bribes  and  sins  ; 
L3t  him  rot  in  the  web  of  lies  he  spins ! 
To  tho  saintly  soul  of  the  early  day, 
To  the  Christian  judge,  let  us  turn  and  say  : 
"Praise  and  thanks  for  an  honest  man  ! — 
Glory  to  God  for  th3  Puritan  !  " 

I  see,  far  southward,  this  quiet  day, 
The  hills  of  Newbury  rolling  away, 
With  the  many  tints  of  tb.3  season  gay, 
Dreamily  blending  in  autumn  mist 
Crimson,  and  gold,  and  amethyst. 
Long  and  low,  with  dwarf  trees  crowned, 
Plum  Island  lies,  like  a  whale  aground, 
A  stone's  toss  over  the  narrow  sound. 
Inland,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  go, 
The  hills  curve  rounl  lika  a  bended  bow  ; 
A  silver  arrow  from  out  thsm  sprung, 
I  see  ths  shine  of  th.3  Q  lasycung  ; 
And,  round  and  round,  over  valley  and  hill, 
Old  roads  winding,  as  old  roads  will, 
Hare  to  a  ferry,  and  there  to  a  mill ; 
And  glimpses  of  chimneys  and  gabled  eaves, 
Tnrough  green  elm  arches  and  maple  leaves, — 
Old  homesteads  sacred  to  all  that  can 
Gladden  or  sadden  the  heart  of  man, — 
Over  whose  thresholds  of  oak  and  stone 
L'fe  and  Death  have  come  and  gone  ! 
There  pictured  tiles  in  the  fireplace  show, 
Great  beams  sag  from  the  ceiling  low, 
Tiie  dresser  glitters  with  polished  wares, 
Tne  long  clock  ticks  on  the  foot-worn  stairs, 
And  the  low,  broad  chimney  shows  the  crack 
By  the  earthquake  made  a  century  back. 
Up  from  their  midst  springs  the  village  spire 
With  the  crest  of  its  cock  in  the  sun  afire ; 
Beyond  are  orchards  and  planting  lands, 
And  great  salt  marsnos  and  glimmering  sands, 


And,  where  north  and  south  the  coast-lines  run, 
The  blink  of  the  sea  in  breeze  and  sun  ! 

I  see  it  all  like  a  chart  unrolled, 
But  my  thoughts  are  full  of  the  past  and  old, 
I  hear  the  tales  of  my  boyhood  told  ; 
And  the  shadows  and  shapes  of  early  days 
Flit  dimly  by  in  the  veiling  haze, 
With  measured  movement  and  rhythmic  chime 
Weaving  like  shuttles  my  web  of  rhyme. 
I  think  of  the  old  man  wise  and  good 
Who  once  on  yon  misty  hillsides  stood, 
(A  poet  who  never  measured  rhyme? 
A  seer  unknown  to  his  dull-eared  time,) 
And,  propped  on  his  staff  of  age,  looked  down, 
With  his  boyhood's  love,  on  his  native  town, 
Where,  written,  as  if  on  its  hills  and  plains, 
His  burden  of  prophecy  yet  remains, 
For  the  voices  of  wood,  and  wave,  and  wind 
To  read  in  the  ear  of  the  musing  mind : — 

"  As  long  as  Plum  Island,  to  guard  the  coast 
As  God  appointed,  shall  keep  its  post ; 
As  long  as  a  salmon  shall  haunt  the  deep 
Of  Merrimack  River,  or  sturgeon  leap  ; 
As  long  as  pickerel  swift  and  slim, 
Or  red-backed  perch,  in  Crane  Pond  swim  ; 
As  long  as  the  annual  sea-fowl  know 

i  Their  time  to  come  and  their  time  to  go  ; 

!  As  long  as  cattle  shall  roam  at  will 

!  The  green,  grass  meadows  by  Turkey  Hill ; 

!  As  long  as  sheep  shall  look  from  the  side 

!  Of  Oldtown  Hill  on  marishes  wide, 
And  Parker  River,  and  salt-sea  tide  ; 

:  As  long  as  a  wandering  pigeon  shall  search 
Tne  fields  below  from  his  white-oak  perch, 

i.When  the  barley-harvest  is  ripe  and  shorn, 

!  And  the  dry  husks  fall  from  the  standing  corn ; 

!  As  long  as  Nature  shall  not  grow  old, 

I  Nor  drop  her  work  from  her  doting  hold, 
And  her  care  for  the  Indian  corn  forget, 
And  the  yellow  rows  in  pairs  to  set ; — 
So  long  shall  Christians  here  be  born, 
Grow  up  and  ripen  as  God's  sweet  corn  ! — 
By  the  beak  of  bird,  by  the  breath  of  frost, 
Shall  never  a  holy  ear  be  lost, 
But,  husked  by  Death  in  the  Planter's  sight, 
Be  sown  again  in  the  fields  of  light !  " 
The  Island  still  is  purple  with  plums, 
Up  the  river  the  salmon  comes, 
Tae  sturgeon  leaps,  and  the  wild-fowl  feeds 
On  hillside  berries  and  marish  seeds, — 
All  the  beautiful  signs  remain, 
From  spring-time  sowing  to  autumn  rain 
The  good  man's  vision  returns  again  ! 
And  let  us  hope,  as  well  we  can, 
That  the  Silent  Angel  who  garners  man 
May  find  some  grain  as  of  old  he  found 
In  the  human  cornfield  ripe  and  sound, 
And  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  deign  to  own 
The  precious  seed  by  the  fathers  sown  ! 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE. 

OF  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme, — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or  one-eyed  Calendar's  horse  of  brass, 
I  Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 
j  Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak, — 
I  Th -.)  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
!  Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead  ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 


160 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE. 


Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain  : 
"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 

Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  arvKles  bare, 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horns'  twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang : 

"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !  " 

Small  pity  for  him  ! — He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship,  in  Chaleur  Bay, — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her  deck ! 
"  Lay  by  !  lay  by  !  "  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  u  Sink  or  swim  ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again  !  " 
And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and  rain  ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 


Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea, — 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not  be  ! 
What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away  ? — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide  ; 
Sharp-tonguecl  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane, 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  refrain : 
"Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  ! " 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 
Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near : 

"Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

"  Hear  me,  neighbors  !  "  at  last  he  cried,— 
"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within  ? 


Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart." 


TELLING  THE  BEES. 


167 


•  "Went  drearily  singing  the  chore-girl  small." 


Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  rne, — 1  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead  !  " 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  "  God  has  touched  him  ! — why  should  w 
Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son,       \ 
"  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run  !  " 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and  sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 


TELLING  THE  BEES.66 

HERE  is  the  place  ;  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took ; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shallow  brook. 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red-barred, 

And  the  poplars  tall ; 
And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the  cattle-yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the  wall. 


There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in  the  sun  ; 

And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed-o'errunv 

Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow ; 
And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same  sun  glows,. 

And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year  ago. 

There  's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell  in  the  breeze ;, 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  farm. 

|  I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
}  I  brushed  off  the  burrs,  and  smoothed  my  hair, 

And   cooled  at    the    brookside  my  brow  and 
throat. 

Since  we  parted,  a  month  had  passed, — 

To  love,  a  year  ; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked  at  last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well-sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now, — the  slantwise  rain 

Of  light  through  the  leaves, 
The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window-pane, 

The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the  eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before, — 

The  house  and  the  trees, 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by  the  door, — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of  bees. 


168 


THE  SYCAMORES. 


Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went  drearily  singing  the  chore-girl  small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of  black. 

Trembling,  I  listened  :  the  summer  sun 

Had  the  chill  of  snow  ; 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees  of  one 

Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go  ! 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  "  My  Mary  weeps 

For  the  dead  to-day  : 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 

The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away. " 

But  her  dog  whined  low ;  on  the  doorway  sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat ;  and  the  chore-girl  still 

Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever  since 

In  my  ear  sounds  on  : — 
"Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,  fly  not  hence  ! 

Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone!  " 


THE  SYCAMORES.. 

IN  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  the  ancient  sycamores. 

One  long  century  hath  been  numbered, 

And  another  half-way  told, 
Since  the  rustic  Irish  gleeman 

Broke  for  them  the  virgin  mould. 

Deftly  set  to  Celtic  music, 
At  his  violin's  sound  they  grew, 

Through  the  moonlit  eves  of  summer, 
Making  Amphion's  fable  true. 

Rise  again,  thou  poor  Hugh  Tallant 

Pass  in  jerkin  green  along, 
With  thy  eyes  brimful  of  laughter, 

And  thy  mouth  as  full  of  song. 

Pioneer  of  Er'n's  outcasts, 
With  his  fiddle  and  his  pack  ; 

Little  dreamed  the  village  Saxons 
Of  the  myriads  at  his  back. 

How  he  wrought  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Delved  by  day  and  sang  by  night, 

With  a  hand  that  never  wearied, 
And  a  heart  forever  light, — 

Still  the  gay  tradition  mingles 
With  a  record  grave  and  drear, 

Like  the  rolic  air  of  Cluny, 

With  the  solemn  march  of  M3ar. 

W'hen  the  box-tree,  white  with  blossoms, 
Make  the  sweet  May  woodlands  glad, 

And  the  Aronia  by  the  river 
Lighted  up  the  swarming  shad, 

And  the  bulging  nets  swept  shoreward, 

With  their  silver-sided  haul, 
Midst  the  shouts  of  dripping  fishers, 

He  was  merriest  of  them  all. 

When,  among  the  jovial  huskers, 
Love  stole  in  at  Labor's  side 

With  the  lusty  airs  of  England, 
Soft  his  Celtic  measures  vied. 


Songs  of  love  and  wailing  lyke-wake, 
And  the  merry  fair's  carouse  ; 

Of  the  wild  Red  Fox  of  Erin 
And  the  Woman  of  Three  Cows, 

By  the  blazing  hearths  of  winter, 
Pleasant  seemed  his  simple  tales, 

Midst  the  grimmer  Yorkshire  legends 
And  the  mountain  myths  of  Wales. 

How  the  souls  in  Purgatory 

Scrambled  up  from  fate  forlorn, 

On  St.  Keven's  sackcloth  ladder, 
Slyly  hitched  to  Satan's  horn. 

Of  the  fiddler  who  at  Tara 

Played  all  night  to  ghost  3  of  kings ; 
Of  the  brown  dwarfs,  and  the  fairies 

Dancing  in  their  moorland  rings  ! 

Jolliest  of  our  birds  of  singing, 

Best  he  loved  the  Bob-o-link. 
lt  Hush  !  "  he  'd  say,  "  the  tipsy  fairies  ! 

Hear  the  little  folks  in  drink  !  " 

Merry-faced,  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Singing  through  the  ancient  town, 

Only  this,  of  poor  Hugh  Tallant, 
Hath  tradition  handed  down. 

Not  a  stone  his  grave  discloses  ; 

But  if  yet  his  spirit  walks, 
'T  is  beneath  the  trees  he  planted, 

And  when  Bob-o-Lincoln  talks  ; 

Green  memorials  of  the  gleeman  ! 

Linking  still  the  river-shores, 
With  their  shadows  cast  by  sunset, 

Stand  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores  ! 

When  the  Father  of  his  Country 

Through  the  north-land  riding  came, 

And  the  roofs  were  starred  with  banners, 
And  the  steeples  rang  acclaim,  — 

When  each  war -scarred  Continental, 
Leaving  smithy,  mill,  and  farm, 

Waved  his  rusted  swor  1  in  welcome, 
And  shot  off  his  old  king's  arm, — 

Slowly  passed  that  august  Presence 
Down  the  thronged  and  shouting  street 

Village  girls  as  white  as  angels, 
Scattering  flowers  around  his  feet. 

Midway,  where  the  plane-tree's  shadow 
Deepest  fell,  his  rein  he  drew  : 

On  his  stately  head,  uncovered, 
Cool  and  soft  the  west-wind  blew. 

And  he  stood  up  in  his  stirrups, 
Looking  up  and  looking  down 

On  the  hills  of  Gold  and  Silver 
Rimming  round  the  little  town, 

On  ths  river,  full  of  sunshine, 

To  the  lap  of  greenest  vales 
Winding  down  from  woode:!  headlands, 

Willow-skirted,  white  with  sails. 

And  he  said,  the  landscape  sweeping 
Slowly  with  his  ungloved  hand, 

"  1  have  seen  no  prospect  fairer 
In  this  goodly  Eastern  land." 

Then  the  bugles  of  his  escort 
Stirred  to  life  the  cavalcade  : 

And  that  head,  so  bare  and  stately, 
Vanished  down  the  depths  of  shade. 


THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE  OF  NEWBURY. 


109 


Ever  since,  in  town  and  farm-house, 
Life  has  had  its  ebb  and  flow  ; 

Thrice  hath  passed  the  human  harvest 
To  its  garner  graen  and  low. 

But  the  traes  the  gleeman  planted, 

Through  the  changes,  changeless  stand 

As  the  marble  calm  of  Tadmor 
Marks  the  desert's  shifting  sand. 

Still  the  level  moon,  at  rising 
Silvers  o'er  each  stately  shaft ; 

Still  beneath  them,  half  in  shadow, 
Singing,  glides  the  pleasure  craft. 

Still  beneath  them,  arm-enfolded, 
Love  and  Youth  together  stray  ; 

While,  as  heart  to  heart  beats  faster, 
More  and  more  their  feet  delay. 

Where  the  ancient  cobbler,  Keezar, 
On  the  open  hillside  wrought, 

Singing,  as  he  drew  his  stitches, 

Songs  his  German  masters  taught, — 

Singing,  with  his  gray  hair  floating 
Round  his  rosy  ample  face, — 

Now  a  thousand  Saxon  craftsmen 
Stitch  and  hammer  in  his  place. 

All  the  pastoral  lanes  so  grassy 
Now  are  Traffic's  dusty  streets  ; 

From  the  village,  grown  a  city, 
Fast  the  rural  grace  retreats. 

But,  still  green,  and  tall,  and  stately, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores. 


THE   DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE  OF 
NEWBURY. 

"  Concerning  ye  Aniphisbaena,  as  soon  as  I  received 
your  commands,  I  made  diligent  inquiry : he  as 
sures  me  y*  it  had  really  two  heads,  one  at  each  end ; 
two  mouths,  two  stings  or  tongues." — REV.  CHUISTO- 

PHEU  TOPPAN  to  COTT.IN  MATHER. 

FAR  away  in  the  twilight  time 
Of  every  people,  in  every  clime, 
Dragons  and  griffins  and  monsters  dire, 
Born  of  water,  and  air,  and  tire, 
Or  nursed,  like  the  Python,  in  the  mud 
And  ooze  of  the  old  Deucalion  flood, 
Crawl  and  wriggle  and  foam  with  rage, 
Through  dusk  tradition  and  ballad  age. 
So  from  the  childhood  of  Newbury  town 
And  its  time  of  fable  the  tale  comes  down 
Of  a  terror  which  haunted  bush  and  brake, 
Tiie  Amphisbsena,  the  Double  Snake  ! 

Thou  who  makest  the  tale  thy  mirth, 

Consider  that  strip  of  Christian  earth 

On  the  desolate  shore  of  a  sailless  sea, 

Full  of  terror  and  mystery, 

Half  redeemed  from  the  evil  hold 

Of  the  wood  so  dreary,  and  dark,  anl  old, 

\V  hich  drank  with  its  lips  of  leaves  the  dew 

When  Time  was  young,  and  the  world  was  new, 


And  wove  its  shadows  with  sun  and  moon, 

Ere  the  stones  of  Cheops  were  squared  and  hewn. 

Think  of  the  sea's  dread  monotone, 

Of  the  mournful  wail  from  the  pine-wood  blown, 

Of  the  strange,  vast  splendors  that  lit  the  North, 

Of  the  troubled  throes  of  the  quaking  earth, 

And  the  dismal  tales  the  Indian  told, 

Till  the  settler's  heart  at  his  hearth  grew  cold, 

And  he  shrank  from  the  tawny  wizard's  boasts, 

And  the  hovering  shadows  seemed  full  of  ghosts, 

And  above,  below,  and  on  every  side, 

The  fear  of  his  creed  seemed  verified  ; — 

And  think,  if  his  lot  were  now  thine  own, 

To  grope  with  terrors  nor  named  nor  known, 

How  laxer  muscle  and  weaker  nerve 

And  a  feebler  faith  thy  need  might  serve  ; 

And  own  to  thyself  the  wonder  more 

That  the  snake  had  two  heads,  and  not  a  score  ! 

Whether  he  lurked  in  the  Oldtown  fen 

Or  the  gray  earth-flax  of  the  Devil's  Dan, 

Or  swam  in  the  wooded  Artichoke, 

Or  coiled  by  the  Northman's  Written  Rock, 

Nothing  on  record  is  left  to  show  ; 

Only  the  fact  that  he  lived,  we  know, 

And  left  the  cast  of  a  double  head 

In  the  scaly  mask  which  he  yearly  shed. 

For  he  carried  a  head  where  his  tail  should  be, 

And  the  two,  of  course,  could  never  agree, 

But  wiggled  about  with  main  and  might, 

Now  to  the  left  and  now  to  the  right ; 

Pulling  and  twisting  this  way  and  that, 

Neither  knew  what  the  other  was  at. 

A  snake  with  two  heads,  lurking  so  near  ! — 
Judg  •  of  the  wonder,  guess  at  the  fear  ! 
Think  what  ancient  gossips  might  say, 
Shaking  their  heads  in  their  draary  way, 
Between  the  meetings  on  Sabbath-day  ! 
Ho  \v  urchins,  searching  at  day's  decline 
Tha  Common  Pasture  for  sheep  or  kine, 
The  terrible  double-ganger  heard 
In  leafy  rustle  or  whir  of  bird  ! 
Think  what  a  zest  it  gave  to  the  sport, 
In  berry-time,  of  the  younger  sort, 
As  over  pastures  blackberry -twined, 
Reuben  and  Dorothy  lagged  bahind, 
And  closer  and  closer,  for  fear  of  harm, 
The  maiden  clung  to  her  lover's  arm  ; 
And  how  the  spark,  who  was  forced  to  stay, 
By  his  sweetheart's  fears,  till  the  break  of  day, 
Thanked  the  snake  for  the  fond  delay  ! 

Far  and  wide  the  tale  was  told, 

Like  a  snowball  growing  while  it  rolled. 

The  nurse  hushed  with  it  the  baby's  §ry ; 

And  it  served,  in  the  worthy  minister's  eye, 

To  paint  the  primitive  serpent  by. 

Cotton  Mather  came  galloping  down 

All  the  way  to  Newbury  town, 

With  his  eyes  agog  and  his  ears  set  wide, 

And  his  marvellous  inkhorn  at  his  side  ; 

Stirring  the  while  in  the  shallow  pool 

Of  his  brains  for  the  lore  he  learned  at  school, 

To  garnish  the  story,  with  here  a  streak 

Of  Latin,  and  there  another  of  Greek  : 

And  the  tales  he  heard  and  the  notes  he  took, 

Behold  !  are  they  not  in  his  Wonder-Book  ? 

Stories,  like  dragons,  are  hard  to  kill. 

If  the  snake  does  not,  the  tale  runs  still 

In  Byfield  Meadows,  on  Pipestave  Hill. 

And  still,  whenever  husband  and  wife 

Publish  the  shame  of  their  daily  strife, 

And,  with  mad  cross-purpose,  tug  and  strain 

At  either  end  of  the  marriage-chain, 

The  gossips  say,  with  a  knowing  shake 

Of  their  gray  heads,  "  Look  at  the  Double  Snake! 

One  in  body  and  two  in  will, 

The  Amphisbaena  is  living  still ! " 


170 


SWAN  SONG  OF  PARSON  AVERT.— TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA. 


THE  SWAN  SONG  OF  PARSON  AVERY. 


"  In  this  night  of  death  I  challenge  the  promise 

of  thy  word  ! — 
Lst  me  see  the  great  salvation  of  which  mine  ears 

have  heard !  — 


WHEN  the  reaper's  task  was  ended,  and  the  sum 
mer  wearing  late,  I  Let  me  pass  from  hence  forgiven,  through  the 
Parson  Avery  sailed  from  Newbury,  with  his  wife  j  grace  of  Christ   our  Lord  ! 

and  children  eight, 
Dropping  down  the^  river-harbor  in  the  shallop    "  In  the  baptism  of  these  waters  wash  white  my 

every  sin. 
And  let  me  follow  up  to  thee  my  household  and 


"  Watch  and  Wait. 
Pleasantly  lay  the  clearings  in  the  mellow  sum 


mer-morn, 

With  the  newly  planted  orchards  dropping  their 
fruits  first-born. 


my  kin  ! 

Open  the  sea-gate  of  thy  heaven,  and  let 
enter  in ! " 


And  the  homesteads  like  green  islands  amid  a  sea  |  When  the  Christian  sings  his  death-song,  all  the 


Broad  meadows  reached  out  seaward 

creeks  between, 
And  hills  rolled  wave-like  inland,  with  oaks  and 

walnuts  green  ; — 
A  fairer  home,  a  goodlier  land,  his  eyes  had  never 

seen. 


listening  heavens  draw  near, 
And  the  angels,  leaning  over  the  walls  of  crystal, 

hear 
How  the  notes  so  faint  and  broken  swell  to  music 

in  God's  ear. 


Yet  away  sailed  Parson  Avery,  away  where  duty 
And  the  voice  of  God  seemed  calling,  to  break 


the  living  bread 
To  the  souls  of  fishers  starvin§ 
Marblehead. 


on  the  rocks  of 


All  day  they  sailed  :  at  nightfall  the  pleasant 
land-breeze  died, 

The  blackening  sky,  at  midnight,  its  starry  lights 
denied, 

And  far  and  low  the  thunder  of  tempest  prophe 
sied  ! 

Blotted  out  were  all  the  coast-lines,  gone  were 
rock,  and  wood,  and  sand  ; 

Grimly  anxious  stood  the  skipper  with  the  rud 
der  in  his  hand, 

And  questioned  of  the  darkness  what  was  sea  and 
what  was  land. 

And  the  preacher  heard  his  dear  ones,  nestled 
round  him,  weeping  sore  : 

u  Never  heed,  my  little  children  !  Christ  is  walk 
ing  on  before 

To  the  pleasant  land  of  heaven,  where  the  sea 
shall  be  no  more. " 

All  at  once  the  great  cloud  parted,  like  a  curtain 

drawn  aside, 
To  let  down  the  torch  of  lightning  on  the  terror 

far  and  wide  ; 
And  the  thunder  and  the  whirlwind  together 

smote  the  tide. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  shallop,  woman's  wail 

and  man's  despair, 
A  crash  of  breaking  timbers  on  the  rocks  so  sharp 

and  bare, 
And,   through    it    all,   the    murmur  of    Father 

Avery's  prayer. 

From  his  struggle  in  the  darkness  with  the  wild 

waves  and  the  blast, 
On  a  rock,  where  every  billow  broke  above  him 


as  it  passed, 

11  his  household,  the  man  of  God  was 


Alone,  of  a 
cast. 


There  a  comrade  heard  him  praying,  in  the  pause 
of  wave  and  wind  : 

u  All  my  own  have  gone  before  me,  and  I  linger 
just  behind ; 

Not  for  life  I  ask,  but  only  for  the  rest  the  ran 
somed  find ! 


The  ear  of  God  was  open  to  his  servant's  last 
request ; 


J 


sweet  hymn  upward  pressed, 


downward  the 


And  the  soul  of  Father  Avery  went,  singing,  to 
its  rest. 

There  was  wailing  on  the  mainland,   from  the 

rocks  of  Marblehead  ; 
In  the  stricken  church  of  Newbury  the  notes  of 

prayer  were  read ; 
And  long,  by  board  and  hearthstone,  the  living 

mourned  the  dead. 

And  still  the  fishers  outbound,  or  scudding  from 

the  squall, 
With  grave  and  reverent  faces,  the  ancient  tale 

recall, 
When  they  see  the  white  waves  breaking  on  the 

Rock  of  Avery's  Fall ! 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA. 
1675. 

RAZE  these  long  blocks  of  brick  and  stone, 
These  huge  mill-monsters  overgrown  ; 
Blot  out  the  humbler  piles  as  well, 
Where,  moved  like  living  shuttles,  dwell 
The  weaving  genii  of  the  bell  ; 
Tear  from  the  wild  Cocheco's  track 
The  dams  that  hold  its  torrents  back ; 
And  let  the  loud-rejoicing  fall 
Plunge,  roaring,  down  its  rocky  wall ; 
And  let  the  Indian's  paddle  play 
On  the  unbridged  Piscataqua ! 
Wide  over  hill  and  valley  spread 
Once  more  the  forest,  dusk  and  dread, 
With  here  and  there  a  clearing  cut 
From  the  walled  shadows  round  it  shut; 
Each  with  its  farm-house  builded  rude, 
By  English  yoeman  squared  and  hewed, 
And  the  grim,  flankered  block-house  bound 
With  bristling  palisades  around. 
So,  haply  shall  before  thine  eyes 
The  dusty  veil  of  centuries  rise, 
The  old,  strange  scenery  overlay 
The  tamer  pictures  of  to-day, 
While,  like  the  actors  in  a  play, 
Pass  in  their  ancient  guise  along 
The  figures  of  my  border  song  : 
What  time  beside  Cocheco's  flood 
The  white  man  and  the  red  man  stood, 
With  words  of  peace  and  brotherhood ; 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA. 


171 


"  Squando  shuts  his  eyes 
Far  off,  Saco's  hemlock -t 


When  passed  the  sacred  calumet 
From  lip  to  lip  with  fire-draught  wet, 
And,  puffed  in  scorn,  the  peace-pipe's  smoke 
Through  the  gray  beard  of  Waldron  broke, 
And  Squando's  voice,  in  suppliant  plea 
For  mercy,  struck  the  haughty  key 
Of  one  who  held,  in  any  fate, 
His  native  pride  inviolate  ! 

"  Let  your  ears  be  opened  wide  ! 
He  who  speaks  has  never  lied. 
Waldron  of  Piscataqua, 
Hear  what  Squando  has  to  say  ! 

fes  and  sees, 

-trees. 

In  his  wigwam,  still  as  stone, 
Sits  a  woman  all  alone, 

"  Wampum  beads  and  birchen  strands 
Dropping  from  her  careless  hands, 
Listening  ever  for  the  fleet 
Patter  of  a  dead  child's  feet ! 

' '  When  the  moon  a  year  ago 
Told  the  flowers  the  time  to  blow, 
In  that  lonely  wigwam  smiled 
Menewea,  our  little  child. 

"  Ere  that  moon  grew  thin  and  old, 
He  was  lying  still  and  cold  ; 
Sent  before  us,  weak  and  small, 
When  the  Master  did  not  call ! 

"  On  his  little  grave  I  lay  ; 
Three  times  went  and  came  the  day  ; 
Thrice  above  me  blazed  the  noon, 
Thrice  upon  me  wept  the  moon. 

"  In  the  third  night-watch  I  heard, 
Far  and  low,  a  spirit-bird  ; 
Very  mournful,  very  wild, 
Sang  the  totem  of  my  child. 

u  'Menewee,  poor  Menewee, 
Walks  a  path  he  cannot  see  : 
Let  the  white  man's  wigwam  light 
With  its  blaze  his  steps  aright. 

11  'All-uncalled,  he  dares  not  show 
Empty  hands  to  Manito  : 
Better  gifts  he  cannot  bear 
Than  the  scalps  his  slayers  wear.' 

u  All  the  while  the  totem  sang, 
Lightning  blazed  and  thunder  rang  ; 
And  a  black  cloud,  reaching  high, 
Pulled  the  white  moon  from  the  sky. 

"  I,  the  medicine-man,  whose  ear 
All  that  spirits  hear  can  hear, — 
I,  whose  eyes  are  wide  to  see 
All  the  things  that  are  to  be, — 

"  Well  I  knew  the  dreadful  signs 
In  the  whispers  of  the  pines, 
In  the  river  roaring  loud, 
In  the  mutter  of  the  cloud. 

"  At  the  breaking  of  the  day, 
From  the  grave  I  passed  away  ; 
Flowers  bloom  round  me,  birds  sang  glad, 
But  my  heart  was  hot  and  mad. 

u  There  is  rust  on  Squando's  knife, 
From  the  warm,  red  springs  of  life  ; 
On  the  funeral  hemlock-trees 
Many  a  scalp  the  totem  sees. 


"  Blood  for  blood  !     But  evermore 
Squando's  hearb  is  sad  and  sore  ; 
And  his  poor  squaw  waits  at  home 
For  the  feet  that  never  come  ! 

"  Waldron  of  Cocheco,  hear  ! 
Squando  speaks,  who  laughs  at  fear  ; 
Take  the  captives  he  has  ta'en  ; 
Let  the  land  have  peace  again  !  " 

As  the  words  died  on  his  tongue, 
Wide  apart  his  warriors  swung  ; 
Parted,  at  the  sign  he  gave, 
Right  and  left,  like  Egypt's  wave. 

And,  like  Israel  passing  free 
Through  the  prophet-charmed  sea, 
Captive  mother,  wife,  and  child 
Through  the  dusky  terror  filed. 

One  alone,  a  little  maid, 
Middleway  her  steps  delayed, 
Glancing,  with  quick,  troubled  sight, 
Round  about  from  red  to  white. 

Then  his  hand  the  Indian  laid 
On  the  little  maiden's  head, 
Lightly  from  her  forehead  fair 
Smoothing  back  her  yellow  hair. 

"  Gift  or  favor  ask  1  none  ; 
What  I  have  is  all  my  own  : 
Never  yet  the  birds  have  sung, 
'Squando  hath  a  beggar's  tongue.' 

"  Yet  for  her  who  waits  at  home, 
For  the  dead  who  cannot  come, 
Lot  the  little  Gold-hair  be 
In  the  place  of  Menewee  ! 

"  Mishanock,  my  little  star  ! 
Come  to  Saco's  pines  afar  ; 
Where  the  sad  one  waits  at  home, 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  come  !  " 

"What !  "  quoth  Waldron,  "leave  a  child 
Christian-born  to  heathens  wild? 
As  God  lives,  from  Satan's  hand 
I  will  pluck  her  as  a  brand  !  " 

"  Hear  me,  white  man  !  "  Squando  cried  ; 
"  Let  the  little  one  decide. 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  say, 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me,  or  stay  V  " 

Slowly,  sadly,  half  afraid, 

Half  regretfully,  the  maid 

Owned  the  ties  of  blood  and  race, — 

Turned  from  Squando's  pleading  face. 

Not  a  word  the  Indian  spoke, 
But  his  wampum  chain  he  broke, 
And  the  beaded  wonder  hung 
On  that  neck  so  fair  and  young. 

Silence-shod,  as  phantoms  seem 
In  the  marches  of  a  dream, 
Single-filed,  the  grim  array 
Through  the  pine-trees  wound  away. 

Doubting,  trembling,  sore  amazed, 
Through  her  tears  the  young  child  gazed, 
"  God  preserve  her  !  "  Waldron  said  ; 
"  Satan  hath  bewitched  the  maid  !  " 

Years  went  and  came.     At  close  of  day 
Singing  came  a  child  from  play, 
Tossing  from  her  loose-locked  head 
Gold  in  sunshine,  brown  in  shade. 


173 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA.— MY  PLAYMATE. 


Pride  was  in  the  mother's  look, 
But  her  head  she  gravely  shook, 
And  with  lips  that  fondly  smiled 
Feigned  to  chide  her  truant  child. 

Unabashed,  the  maid  began  : 
l*  Up  and  down  tiie  brook  I  ran, 
Where,  beneath  the  bank  so  steep, 
Lie  the  spotted  trout  asleep. 

'''  'Chip  ! '  went  squirrjl  on  the  wall, 
After  me  I  heard  him  call, 
And  the  cat-bird  on  the  tree 
Tried  his  best  to  mimic  me. 

4  v  Where  the  hemlocks  grew  so  dark 
Tnat  I  stopped  to  look  and  hark, 
On  a  log,  with  feather-hat, 
By  the  path,  an  Indian  sat. 

' '  Then  I  cried,  and  ran  .away  ; 
But  he  called,  and  bade  me  sta}' ; 
And  his  voice  was  good  and  mild 
As  my  mother's  to  her  child. 

"  And  he  took  my  wampum  chain, 
Looked  and  looked  it  o'er  again ; 
Gave  me  berries,  and,  beside, 
On  my  neck  a  plaything  tied." 

Straight  the  mother  stooped  to  see 
What  the  Indian's  gift  might  be. 
On  the  braid  of  Wampum  hung, 
Lo  !  a  cross  of  silver  swunsr. 


Well  she  knew  its  graven  sign, 
Squando's  bird  and  totem  pine  : 
And,  a  mirage  of  the  brain, 
Flowed  her  childhood  back  again. 

Flashed  the  roof  the  sunshine  through, 
Into  space  the  walls  outgrew  ; 
On  the  Indian's  wigwam -mat, 
Blossom-crowned,  again  she  sat. 

Cool  she  felt  the  west-wind  blow, 
In  her  ear  the  pines  sang  low, 
And,  like  links  from  out  a  chain, 
Dropped  the  years  of  care  and  pain. 

From  the  outward  toil  and  din, 
From  the  griefs  that  gnaw  within, 
To  the  freedom  of  the  woods 
Called  the  birds,  and  winds,  and  floods. 

Well,  O  painful  minister ! 
Watch  thy  flock,  but  blame  not  her, 
If  her  ear  grew  sharp  so  hear 
All  their  voices  whispering  near. 

Blame  her  not,  as  to  her  soul 
All  the  desert's  glamour  stole, 
That  a  tear  for  childhood's  loss 
Dropped  upon  the  Indian's  cross. 

When,  that  night,  ths  Book  was  read, 
And  she  bowed  her  widowed  head, 
And  a  prayer  for  each  loved  name 
Rose  like  incense  from  a  flame, 

To  the  listening  ear  of  Heaven, 
Lo  !  another  name  was  given  : 
l>  Father,  give  the  Indian  rest ! 
Biess  him!  for  his  love  has  blest !  " 


MY  PLAYMATE. 

THE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low  ; 

T-ie  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
Tae  orchard  birds  sang  clear ; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

Fo.-,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 

My  playmate  left  her  home. 
And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 

T-ie  music  and  the  bloom. 


She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 
She  laid  her  hand  in  mine  : 

What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 
Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 


She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May  : 
The  constant  years  told  o'er 

Tneir  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 
Bat  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years ; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  1  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow  ; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown, — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 


The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 
And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet 

The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 

The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 
The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 

The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems, — 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice  : 

Does  she  remember  mine  V 
And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

What  care  she  that  the  orioles  build 

For  other  eyes  than  ours, — 
Tiiat  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 

And  other  laps  with  flowers  V 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time  ! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
It-  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 


THE  SHADOW  AND  THE  LIGHT. 


173 


The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow  ; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago. 


And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea, — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee  ! 


"  She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May. 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE  SHADOW  AND  THE  LIGHT. 

"  And  I  sought,  whence  is  Evil :  I  set  before  the  eye 
of  my  spirit  the  whole  creation ;  whatsoever  we  see 
therein, — sea,  earth,  air,  stars,  trees,  moral  creatures, — 
yea,  whatsoever  there  is  we  do  not  see, — angels  and 
spiritual  powers.  Where  is  evil,  and  whence  comes  it, 
since  God  the  Good  hath  created  all  things  ?  Why  made 
He  anything  at  all  of  evil,  and  not  rather  by  His  Al- 
mightiness  cause  it  not  to  be  ?  These  thoughts  I  turned 
in  my  miserable  heart,  f  vercharged  with  most  gnawing 
cares."  "  And,  admonished  to  return  to  myself,  I  entered 
even  into  my  inmost  soul,  Thou  being  my  guide,  and  be 
held  even  beyond  my  soul  and  mind  the  Light  unchange-  I 
able.  He  who  knows  the4  Truth  knows  what  that  Light  1 
is,  and  he  that  knows  it  knows  Eternity  !  O  Truth,  who 
art  Eternity  !  Love,  who  art  Truth  !  Eternity,  who  art 
Love  I  And  I  beheld  that  Thou  madest  all  things  good, 
and  to  Thee  is  nothing  whatsoever  evil.  From  the 
angel  to  the  worm,  from  the  first  motion  to  the  last,  Thou 
settest  each  in  its  place,  and  everything  is  good  in  its 
kind.  Woe  is  me  ! — how  high  art  Thou  in  the  highest, 
how  deep  in  the  deepest !  and  Thou  never  departest  from 
us  and  we  scarcely  return  to  Thee." — Augustine's 
Soliloquies,  Book  VII. 

THE  fourteen  centuries  fall  away 
Between  us  and  the  Afric  saint, 
And  at  his  side  we  urge,  to-day, 
The  immemorial  quest  and  old  complaint. 


No  outward  sign  to  us  is  given, — 

From  sea  or  earth  comes  no  reply  ; 

Hushed  as  the  warm  Numidian  heaven 

He  vainly  questioned  bends  our  frozen  sky. 

No  victory  comes  of  all  our  strife, — 

From  all  we  grasp  the  meaning  slips  ; 
The  Sphinx  sits  at  the  gate  of  life, 
With  the  old  question  on  her  awf  nl  lips. 

In  paths  unknown  we  hear  the  feet 
Of  fear  before,  and  guilt  behind  ; 
We  pluck  the  wayside  fruit,  and  eat 
Ashes  and  dust  beneath  its  golden  rind. 

From  age  to  age  descends  unchecked 

The  sad  bequest  of  sire  to  son, 
The  body's  taint,  the  mind's  defect, — 
Through  every  web  of  life  the  dark  threads  run. 

O,  why  and  whither  ?— God  knows  all ; 

I  only  know  that  he  is  good, 
And  that  whatever  may  befall 
Or  here  or  there,  must  be  the  best  that  could. 

Between  the  dreadful  cherubim 
A  Father's  face  I  still  discern, 
As  Moses  looked  of  old  on  him, 
And  saw  his  glory  into  goodness  turn  ! 


174 


THE  GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS.— THE  EVE  OF  ELECTION. 


For  he  is  merciful  as  just ; 

And  so,  by  faith  correcting  sight, 
I  bow  before  his  will,  and  trust 
Howe'er  they  seem  he  doeth  all  things  right. 

And  dare  to  hope  that  he  will  make 

The  rugged  smooth,  the  doubtful  plain ; 
His  mercy  never  quite  forsake  ; 
His  healing  visit  every  realm  of  pain  ; 

That  suffering  is  not  his  revenge 

Upon  his  creatures  weak  and  frail, 
Sent  on  a  pathway  new  and  strange 
With  feet  that  wander  and  with  eyes  that  fail ; 

That,  o'er  the  crucible  of  pain, 

Watches  the  tender  eye  of  Love  , 

The  slow  transmuting  of  the  ehain 
Whose  links  are  iron  below  to  gold  above  ! 

Ah  me  !  we  doubt  the  shining  skies, 

Seen  through  our  shadows  of  offence, 
And  drown  with  our  poor  childish  cries 
The  cradle-hymn  of  kindly  Providence. 

And  still  we  love  the  evil  cause. 

And  of  the  just  effect  complain  : 
We  tread  upon  life  's  broken  laws, 
And  murmur  at  our  self-inflicted  pain  ; 

We  turn  us  from  the  light,  and  find 

Our  spectral  shapes  before  us  thrown, 
As  they  who  leave  the  sun  behind 
Walk  in  the  shadows  of  themselves  alone. 

And  scarce  by  will  or  strength  of  ours 

We  set  our  faces  to  the  day  ; 
Weak,  wavering,  blind,  the  Eternal  Powers 
Alone  can  turn  us  from  ourselves  away. 

Our  weakness  is  the  strength  of  sin, 

But  love  must  needs  be  stronger  far, 
Outreaching  all  and  gathering  in 
The  erring  spirit  and  the  wandering  star. 

A  Voice  grows  with  the  growing  years ; 

Earth,  hushing  down  her  bitter  cry, 
Looks  upward*  from  her  graves,  and  hears, 
"The  Resurrection  and  the  Life  am  I." 

O  Love  Divine  ! — whose  constant  beam 

Shines  on  the  eyes  that  will  not  see, 

And  waits  to  bless  us,  while  we  dream 

Thou  leavest  us  because  we  turn  from  thee  ! 

All  souls  that  struggle  and  aspire, 

All  hearts  of  prayer  by  thee  are  lit ; 
And,  dim  or  clear,  thy  tongues  of  fire 
On  dusky  tribes  and  twilight  centuries  sit. 

Nor  bounds,  nor  clime,  nor  creed  thou  know' si 

Wide  as  our  need  thy  favors  fall ; 
The  white  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
Stoop,  seen  or  unseen,  o'er  the  heads  of  all. 

O  Beauty,  old  yet  ever  new  ! 67 

Eternal  Voice,  and  Inward  Word, 
The  Logos  of  the  Greek  and  Jew, 
The  old  sphere-music  which  the  Samian  heard  ! 

Truth  which  the  sage  and  prophet  saw, 

Long  sought  without,  but  found  within, 
The  Law  of  Love  beyond  all  law, 
The  Life  o'erflooding  mortal  death  and  sin  ! 

Shine  on  us  with  the  light  which  glowed 

Upon  the  trance-bound  shepherd's  way, 
Who  saw  the  Darkness  overflowed 
And  drowned  by  tides  of  everlasting  day.1'"1 


Shine,  light  of  God  ! — make  broad  thy  scope 

To  all  who  sin  and  suffer  ;  more 
And  better  than  we  dare  to  hope 
With  Heaven's   compassion   make   our  longings 
poor  ! 


THE  GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS. 

TKITEMIUS  OF  HERBIPOLIS,  one  day, 

While  kneeling  at  the  altar's  foot  to  pray, 

Alone  with  God,  as  was  his  pious  choice, 

Heard  from  without  a  miserable  voice, 

A  sound  which  seemed  of  all  sad  things  to  tell, 

As  of  a  los.t  soul  crying  out  of  hell. 

Thereat  the  Abbot  paused  ;  the  chain  whereby 
His  thoughts  went  upward  broken  by  that  cry  ; 
And,  looking  from  the  casement,  saw  below 
A  wretched  woman,  with  gray  hair  a-flow, 
And  withered  hands  held  up  to  him,  who  cried 
For  alms  as  one  who  might  not  be  denied. 

She  cried,  "  For  the  dear  love  of  Him  who  gave 
His  life  for  ours,  my  child  from  bondage  save, — 
My  beautiful,  brave  first-born,  chained  with 

slaves 

In  the  Moor's  galley,  where  the  sun-smit  waves 
Lap  the  white  walls  of  Tunis  !  "— "  What  I  can 
I  give,"  Tritemius  said:  "my  prayers." — "O 

man 
Of  God  !  "    she  cried,  for  grief  had  made  her 

bold, 

''Mock  me  not  thus ;  I  ask  not  prayers,  but  gold. 
Words  will  not  serve  me,  alms  alone  suffice  ; 
Even  while    I    speak  perchance    my   f.rst-born 

dies." 

"Woman!"    Tritemius    answered,     "from   our 

door 

None  go  unfed  ;  hence  are  we  always  poor, 
A  single  soldo  is  our  only  store. 
Thou  hast  our  prayers ; — what  can  we  give  thee 

more  V  " — 

I  tl  Give  me,"  she  said,   "the  silver  candlesticks 
j  On  either  side  of  the  great  crucifix. 
j  God  well  may  spare  them  on  his  errands  sped, 
I  Or  he  can  give  you  golden  ones  instead. " 

Then  spake  Tiitemius,   "Even  as  thy  word, 
!  Womanx  to  be  it !     (Our  most  gracious  Lord. 
Who  loveth  mercy  more  than  sacrifice, 
Pardon  me  if  a  human  soul  I  prize 
Above  the  gifts  upon  his  altar  piled  ! ) 
Take  what  thou  askest,  and  redeem  thy  child." 
I 

1  But  his  hand  trembled  as  the  holy  alms 
He  placed  within  the  beggar's  eager  palms  : 
And  as  she  vanished  clown  the  linden  shade, 
He  bowed  his  head  and  for  forgiveness  prayed. 

:  So  the  day  passed,  and  when  the  twilight  came 
|  He  woke  to  find  the  chapel  all  aflame, 
'  And,  dumb  with  grateful  wonder,  to  behold 
i  Upon  the  altar  candlesticks  of  gold  ! 


THE  EVE  OF  ELECTION. 

FROM  gold  to  gray 

Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  Summer  fades  too  soon  ; 

But  tenderly 

Above  the  sea 
Hangs,  white  and  calm,  the  hunter's  moon. 


THE  OVER-HEART. 


175 


In  its  pale  fire, 

The  village  spire 
Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance  ; 

The  painted  walls 

Whereon  it  falls 
Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance  ! 

O'er  fallen  leaves 

The  west-wind  grieves, 
Yet  comes  a  seed-time  round  again  ; 

And  morn  shall  see 

The  State  sown  free 
With  baneful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 

Along  the  street 

The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hands  conceal 

The  moulds  of  fate 

That  shape  the  State, 
And  make  or  mar  the  common  weal. 

Around  I  see 

The  powers  that  be  ; 
I  stand  by  Empire's  primal  springs  ; 

And  princes  meet, 

In  every  street, 
And  hear  the  tread  of  uncrowned  kings  ! 

Hark  !  through  the  crowd 

The  laugh  runs  loud, 
Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land 

A  careless  hand 
May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow's  noon  ! 

No  jest  is  this  ; 

One  cast  amiss 
May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom's  year. 

O,  take  me  where 

Are  hearts  of  prayer, 
The  foreheads  bowed  in  reverent  fear  ! 

Not  lightly  fall 

Beyond  recall 
And  written  scrolls  a  breath  can  float ; 

The  crowning  fact 

The  kingliest  act 
Of  Freedom  is  the  Freeman's  vote  ! 

For  pearls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies  ; 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice  ; 

The  blood  of  Vane, 

His  prison  pain 
Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 

And  hers  whose  faith 

Drew  strength  from  death, 
And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God  ! 

Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 
A  right  which  brave  men  died  to  gain  ; 

The  stake,  the  cord, 

The  axe,  the  sword, 
Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 

The  shadow  rend, 

And  o'er  us  bend, 
O  martyrs,  with  your  crowns  and  palms, — 

Breathe  through  these  thr6ngs 

Your  battle  songs, 
Your  scaffold  prayers,  and  dungeon  psalms  ! 

Look  from  the  sky, 
Like  God's  great  eye, 
Thou  solemn  noon,  with  searching  beam, 


Till  in  the  sight 
Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  self-seekings  meaner  seem. 

Shame  from  our  hearts 

Unworthy  arts, 
The  fraud  designed,  the  purpose  dark  ; 

And  smite  away 

The  hands  we  lay 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ark. 

To  party  claims 

And  private  aims, 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  soverign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be, 
When  God  and  man  shall  speak  as  one  ! 


THE  OVER-HEART. 

"  For  of  Him,  and  through  Him,  and  to  Him  are  all 
things,  to  whom  be  glory  forever !  "  —  PAUL. 

ABOVE,  below,  in  sky  and  sod, 
In  leaf  and  spar,  in  star  and  man, 
Well  might  the  wise  Athenian  scan 

The  geometric  signs  of  God, 
The  measured  order  of  his  plan. 

And  India's  mystics  sang  aright 

Of  the  One  Life  pervading  all, — 

One  Being's  tidal  rise  and  fall 
In  soiil  and  form,  in  sound  and  sigLt, — 

Eternal  outflow  and  recall. 

God  is  :  and  man  in  guilt  and  fear 
The  central  fact  of  Nature  owns  ; — 
Kneels,  trembling,  by  his  altar-stones, 

And  darkly  dreams  the  ghastly  smear 

•  Of  blood  appeases  and  atones. 

Guilt  shapes  the  Terror  :  deep  within 

The  human  heart  the  secret  lies 

Of  all  the  hideous  deities  ; 
And,  painted  on  a  ground  of  sin, 

The  fabled  gods  of  torment  rise  ! 

And  what  is  He  ? — The  ripe  grain  nods, 
The  sweet  dews  fall,  the  sweet  flowers  blow  ; 
But  darker  signs  his  presence  show  : 

The  earthquake  and  the  storm  are  God's, 
And  good  and  evil  interflow. 

O  hearts  of  love  !  O  souls  that  turn 
Like  sunflowers  to  the  pure  and  best ! 
To  you  the  truth  is  manifest  : 

For  they  the  mind  of  Christ  discern 
Who  lean  like  John  upon  his  breast ! 

In  him  of  whom  the  sibyl  told, 

For  whom  the  prophet's  harp  was  toned, 
Whose  need  the  sag  eand  magian  owned, 

The  loving  heart  of  God  behold, 

The  hope  for  which  the  ages  groaned  ! 

Fade,  pomp  of  dreadful  imagery 
Wherewith  mankind  have  deified 
Their  hate,  and  selfishness,  and  pride  ! 

Let  the  scared  dreamer  wake  to  see 
The  Christ  of  Nazareth  at  his  side  ! 


176 


IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JOSEPH  STURGE. 


What  doth  that  holy  Guide  require  ? — 
No  rite  of  pain,  nor  gift  of  blood, 
But  man  a  kindly  brotherhood, 

Looking,  where  duty  is  desire, 
To  him,  the  beautiful  and  good. 

^ 

Gone  be  the  faithlessness  of  fear, 

And  let  the  pitying  heaven's  sweet  rain 
Wash  out  the  altar's  bloody  stain  ; 

The  law  of  Hatred  disappear, 
The  law  of  Love  alone  remain. 

How  fall  the  idols  false  and  grim  !— 
And  lo  !  their  hideous  wreck  above 
The  emblems  of  the  Lamb  and  Dove  ! 

Man  turns  from  God,  not  God  from  him  ; 
And  guilt,  in  suffering,  whispers  Love  ! 

The  world  sits  at  the  feet  of  Christ, 
Unknowing,  blind,  and  uncon soled; 
It  yet  shall  touch  his  garment's  fold, 

And  feel  the  heavenly  Alchemist 
Transform  its  very  dust  to  gold. 

The  theme  befitting  angel  tongues 
Beyond  a  mortal's  scope  has  grown. 
O  heart  of  mine  !  with  reverence  own 

The  fulness  which  to  it  belongs, 

And  trust  the  unknown  for  the  known. 


IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JOSEPH 
STURGE. 

IN  the  fair  land  o'erwatched  by  Ischia's  moun 
tains, 

Across  the  charmed  bay 

Whose  blue  waves  keep  with  Capri's  silver  foun 
tains 
Perpetual  holiday, 

A  king  lies  dead,  his  wafer  duly  eaten, 

His  gold-bought  masses  given  ; 
And  Rome's  great  altar  smokes  with  gums  to 
sweeten 

Her  foulest  gift  to  Heaven. 

And  while  t,ll  Naples  thrills  with  mute  thanks 
giving, 

The  couit  of  England's  queen 
For  the  dead  monster  so  abhorred  while  living 

In  mourning  garb  is  seen. 

With  a  true  sorrow  God  rebukes  that  feigning  ; 

By  lone  Edgbaston's  side 
Stands  a  great  city  in  the  sky's  sad  raining, 

Bareheaded  and  wet-eyed  ! 

Silent  for  once  the  restless  hive  of  labor, 

Save  the  low  funeral  tread, 
Or  voice  of  craftsman  whisper'n^  to  his  neighbor 

The  good  deeds  of  the  dead. 

For  him  no  minster's  chant  of  the  immortals 

Rose  from  the  lips  of  sin  ; 

No  mitred  priest  swung  back  the  heavenly  por 
tals 

To  let  the  white  soul  in. 

But  Age  and  Sickness  framed  their  tearful  faces 

In  the  low  hovel's  door, 
And  prayers  went  up  from  all  the  dark  by-places 

And  Ghettos  of  the  poor. 

The  pallid  toiler  and  the  negro  chattel, 
The  vagrant  of  the  street, 


The  human  dice  wherewith  in  games  of  battle 
The  lords  of  earth  compete, 

Touched   with  a  grief  that  needs  no  outward 
draping, 

All  swelled  the  long  lament, 
Of  grateful  hearts,  instead  of  marble,  shaping 

His  viewless  monument ! 

For  never  yet,  with  ritual  pomp  and  splendor, 

In  the  long  heretofore, 
A  heart  more  loyal,  warm,  and  true,  and  tender, 

Has  England's  turf  closed  o'er. 

And  if  there  fell  from  out  her  grand  old  steeples 

No  crash  of  brazen  wail, 

The  murmurous  woe  of  kindreds,  tongues,  and 
peoples 

Swept  in  on  every  gale. 

It  came  from  Holstein's  birchen-belted  meadows, 

And  from  the  tropic  calms 
Of  Indian  islands  in  the  sun-smit  shadows 

Of  Occidental  palms ; 

From  the  locked  roadsteads  of  the  Bothnian  peas 
ants, 

And  harbors  of  the  Finn, 

Where  war's  worn  victims  saw  his  gentle  pres 
ence 
Come  sailing,  Christ-like,  in, 

To  seek  the  lost,  to  build  the  old  waste  places, 

To  link  the  hostile  shores 
Of  severing  seas,  and  sow  with  England's  daisiei 

The  moss  of  Finland's  moors. 

Thanks  for  the  good  man's  beautiful  example, 

Who  in  the  vilest  saw 
Some  sacred  crypt  or  altar  of  a  temple    ' 

Still  vocal  with  God's  law  ; 

And  heard  with  tender  ear  the  spirit  sighing 

As  from  its  prison  cell, 
Praying  for  pity,  like  the  mournful  crying 

Of  Jonah  out  of  hell. 

Not  his  the  golden  pen's  or  lip's  persuasion, 

But  a  fine  sense  of  right, 
And  Truth's  directness,  meeting  each  occasion 

Straight  as  a  line  of  light. 

His  faith  and  works,  like  streams  that  inter 
mingle, 

In  the  same  channel  ran  : 
The  crystal  clearness  of  an  eye  kept  single 

Shamed  all  the  frauds  of  man. 

The  very  gentlest  of  all  human  natures 

He  joined  to  courage  strong, 
And  love  outreaching  unto  all  God's  creatures 

With  sturdy  hate  of  wrong. 

Tender  as  woman  ;  manliness  and  meekness 

In  him  were  so  allied 

That  they  who  judged  him  by  his  strength  o 
weakness 

Saw  but  a  single  side. 

Men  failed,  betrayed   him,  but  his  zeal  seeme 
nourished 

By  failure  and  by  fall ; 
Still  a  large  faith  in  human-kind  he  cherished, 

And  in  God's  love  for  all. 

And  now  he  rests :  his  greatness  and  his  sweel 
ness 

No  more  shall  seem  at  strife ; 
And  death  has  moulded  into  calm  completeness 

The  statue  of  his  life. 


TRDsTTAS.—  THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND. 


177 


Where  the  dews  glisten  and  the  song-birds  war 
ble, 

His  dust  to  dust  is  laid, 
In  Nature's  keeping,  with  no  pomp  of  marble 

To  shame  his  modest  shade. 

The  forges  glow,  the  hammers  all  are  ringing  ; 

Beneath  its  smoky  vale, 
Hard  by,  the  city  of  his  love  is  swinging 

Its  clamorous  iron  flail. 

But  round  his  grave  are  quietude  and  beauty, 
And  the  sweet  heaven  above, — 

The  fitting  symbols  of  a  life  of  duty 
Transfigured  into  love ! 


TRINITAS. 

AT  morn  I  prayed,  "  I  fain  would  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three  ; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me." 

I  wandered  forth,  the  sun  and  air 
I  saw  bestowed  with  equal  care 
On  good  and  evil,  foul  and  fair. 

No  partial  favor  dropped  the  rain  ; — 
Alike  the  righteous  and  profane 
Rejoiced  above  their  heading  grain. 

And  my  heart  murmured,  "Is  it  meet 
That  blindfold  Nature  thus  should  treat 
With  equal  hand  the  tares  and  wheat  ?  " 

A  presence  melted  through  my  mood, — 
A  warmth,  a  light,  a  sense  of  good, 
Like  sr1"  shine  through  a  winter  wood. 

I  saw"  that  presence,  mailed  complete 
In  her  white  innocence,  pause  to  greet 
A  fallen  sister  of  the  street. 

Upon  her  bosom  snowy  pure 
The  lost  one  clung,  as  if  secure 
From  inward  guilt  or  outward  lure. 

"  Beware  !  "  I  said  ;   "in  this  I  see 
No  gain  to  her,  but  loss  to  thee  : 
Who  uouches  pitch  defiled  must  be." 

I  passed  the  haunts  of  shame  and  sin, 
And  a  voice  whispered,  ' k  Who  therein 
Shall  these  lost  souls  to  Heaven's  peace  win  ? 

"  Who  there  shall  hope  and  health  dispense, 
And  lift  the  ladder  up  from  thence 
Whose  rounds  are  prayers  of  penitence  ?  " 

I  said,  "  No  higher  life  they  know  ; 
These  earth-worms  love  to  have  it  so. 
Who  stoops  to  raise  them  sinks  as  low." 

That  night  with  painful  care  I  read 
What  Hippo's  saint  and  Calvin  said, — 
The  living  seeking  to  the  dead  ! 

In  vain  I  turned,  in  weary  quest, 

Old  pages,  where  (God  give  them  rest !) 

The  poor  creed-mongers  dreamed  and  guessed. 

And  still  I  prayed,  "  Lord,  let  me  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three  ; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me  !  " 

Then  something  whispered,  "  Dost  thou  pray 
For  what  thou  hast  ?     This  very  day 
The  Holy  Three  have  crossed  thy  way. 

12 


''Did  not  the  gifts  of  sun  and  air 

To  good  and  ill  alike  declare 

The  all-compassionate  Father's  care  ? 

"In  the  white  soul  that  stooped  to  raise 

The  lost  one  from  her  evil  ways, 

Thou  saw'st  the  Christ,  whom  angels  praise  ! 

"  A  bodiless  Divinity, 

The  still  small  Voice  that  spake  to  thee 

Was  the  Holy  Spirit's  mystery  ! 

''•  O  blind  of  sight,  of  faith  how  small ! 
Father,  and  Son,  and  Holy  Call  ;— 
Tnis  day  thou  hast  denied  them  all ! 

"Revealed  in  love  and  sacrifice, 
The  Holiest  passed  before  thine  eyes, 
One  and  the  same,  in  threefold  guise. 

"  The  equal  Father  in  rain  and  sun, 
His  Christ  in  the  good  to  ev,il  done, 
His   Voice  in   thy  soul ; — and  the  Three  are 
One !  " 

I  shut  my  grave  Aquinas  fast ; 
The  monkish  gloss  of  ages  past, 
The  schoolman's  creed  aside  I  cast. 

And  my  heart  answered,  "Lord,  I  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three ; 
Thy  riddle  hath  been  read  to  me  !  " 


THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND. 

OUR  vales  are  sweet  with  fern  and  rose, 

Our  hills  are  maple-crowned ; 
But  not  from  them  our  fathers  chcse 

The  village  burying-ground. 

The  dreariest  spot  in  all  the  land 

To  Death  they  set  apart ; 
With  scanty  grace  from  Nature's  hand, 

And  none  from  that  of  Art. 

/ 

A  winding  wall  of  mossy  stone, 

Frost-flung  and  broken,  lines 
A  lonesome  acre  thinly  grown 

With  grass  and  wandering  vines. 

Without  the  wall  a  birch-tree  shows 

Its  drooped  and  tasselled  head  ; 
Within,  a  stag-horned  sumach  grows, 

Fern-leafed,  with  spikes  of  red. 

There,  sheep  that  graze  the  neighboring  plain 

Like  white  ghosts  come  and  go, 
The  farm-horse  drags  his  fetlock  chain, 

The  cow-bell  tinkles  slow. 

Low  moans  the  river  from  its  bed, 

The  distant  pines  reply ; 
Like  mourners  shrinking  from  the  dead, 

They  stand  apart  and  sigh. 

Unshaded  smites  the  summer  sun, 

Unchecked  the  winter  blast ; 
The  school-girl  learns  the  place  to  shun, 

With  glances  backward  cast. 

For  thus  our  fathers  testified, — 

That  he  might  read  who  ran,— 
The  emptiness  of  human  pride, 

The  nothingness  of  man. 


178 


THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW. 


They  dared  not  plant  the  grave  with  flowers, 

Nor  dress  the  funeral  sod, 
Where,  with  a  love  as  deep  as  ours, 

They  left  their  dead  with  God. 

The  hard  and  thorny  path  they  kept 

From  beauty  turned  aside  ; 
Nor  missed  they  over  those  who  slept 

The  grace  to  life  denied. 

Yet  still  the  wilding  flowers  would  blow, 

The  golden  leaves  would  fall, 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 

And  God  be  good  to  all. 

Above  the  graves  the  blackberry  hung 

In  bloom  and  green  its  wreath, 
And  harebells  swung  as  if  they  rung 

The  chimes  of  peace  beneath. 

The  beauty  Nature  loves  to  share, 

The  gifts  she  hath  for  all, 
The  common  light,  the  common  air, 

O'ercrept  the  graveyard's  wall. 

It  knew  the  glow  of  eventide, 

The  sunrise  and  the  noon, 
And  glorified  and  sanctified 

It  slept  beneath  the  moon. 

With  flowers  or  snow-flakes  for  its  sod, 

Around  the  seasons  ran, 
And  evermore  the  love  of  God 

Rebuked  the  fear  of  man. 

We  dwell  with  fears  on  either  hand, 

Within  a  daily  strife, 
An^l  spectral  problems  waiting  stand 

Before  the  gates  of  life. 

The  doubts  we  vainly  seek  to  solve, 

The  truths  we  know,  are  one  ; 
The  known  and  nameless  stars  revolve 

Around  the  Central  Sun. 

And  if  we  reap  as  we  have  sovrn, 

And  take  the  dole  we  deal, 
The  law  of  pain  is  love  alone, 

The  wounding  is  to  heal. 

Unharmed  from  change  to  change  we  glide, 

We  fall  as  in  our  dreams  ; 
The  far-off  terror  at  our  side 

A  smiling  angel  seems. 

Secure  on  God's  all-tender  heart 

Alike  rest  great  and  small ; 
Why  fear  to  lose  our  little  part, 

When  he  is  pledged  for  all  ? 

O  fearful  heart  and  troubled  brain  ! 

Take  hope  and  strength  from  this, — 
That  Nature  never  hints  in  vain, 

Nor  prophesies  amiss. 

Her  wild  birds  sing  the.  same  sweet  stave, 

Her  lights. and  airs  are  given 
Alike  to  playground  and  the  grave ; 

And  over  both  is  Heaven. 


THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW. 

PIPES  of  the  misty  moorlands, 
Voice  of 'the  glens  and  hills  ; 

The  droning  of  the  torrents, 
The  treble  of  the  rills  1 


Not  the  braes  of  broom  and  heather, 
Nor  the  mountains  dark  with  rain, 

Nor  maiden  bower,  nor  border  tower, 
Have  heard  your  sweetest  strain  ! 

Dear  to  the  Lowland  reaper, 

And  plaided  mountaineer, — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  Scottish  pipes  are  dear  ; — 
Sweet  sounds  the  ancient  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  loch,  and  glade  ; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  pipes  at  Lucknow  played. 

Day  by  day  the  Indian  tiger 

Louder  yelled,  and  nearer  crept ; 
Round  and  round  the  jungle- serpent 

Near  and  nearer  circles  swept. 
"Pray  for  rescue,  wives  and  mothers, — 

Pray  to-day  !  "  the  soldier  said  ; 
u  To-morrow,  death  *s  between  us 

And  the  wrong  and  shame  we  dread.1' 

O,  they  listened,  looked,  and  waited, 

Till  their  hope  became  despair  ; 
And  the  sobs  of  low  bewailing 

Filled  the  pauses  of  their  prayer. 
Then  Tip  spake  a  Scottish  maiden, 

With  her  ear  unto  the  ground  : 
"  Dinna  ye  hear  it  ? — dinna  ye  hear  it  ? 

The  pipes  o'  Havelock  sound  !  " 

Hushed  the  wounded  man  his  groaning ; 

Hushed  the  wife  her  little  ones  ; 
Alone  they  heard  the  drum-roll 

And  the  roar  of  Sepoy  guns. 
But  to  sounds  of  home  and  childhood 

The  Highland  ear  was  true  ; — 
As  her  mother's  cradle-crooning 

The  mountain  pipes  she  knew. 

Like  the  march  of  soundless  music 

Through  the  vision  of  the  seer, 
More  of  feeling  than  of  hearing, 

Of  the  heart  than  of  the  ear, 
She  knew  the  droning  pibroch, 

She  knew  the  Campbell's  call ; 
*Haik!    hear  ye  no' MacGregor's, — 

The  grandest  o'  them  all ! '' 

O,  they  listened,  dumb  and  breathless, 

And'  they  caught  the  sound  at  last ; 
Faint  and  far  beyond  the  Goomtee 

Rose  and  fell  the  piper's  blast ! 
Then  a  burst  of  wild  thanksgiving 

Mingled  woman's  voice  and  man's  ; 
"  God  be  praised  !— the  march  of  Havelock  ! 

The  piping  of  the  clans  !  " 

Louder,  nearer,  fierce  as  vengeance. 

Sharp  and  shrill  as  swords  at  strife, 
Came  the  wild  MacGregor's  clan-call, 

Stinging  all  the  air  to  life. 
But  when  the  far-off  dust-cloud 

To  plaided  legions  grew, 
Full  tenderly  and  blithesomely 

The  pipes  of  rescue  blew  ! 

Round  the  silver  domes  of  Lucknow, 

Moslem  mosque  and  Pagan  shrine, 
Breathed  the  air  to  Britons  dearest, 

The  air  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 
O'er  the  cruel  roll  of  war-drums 

Rose  that  sweet  and  homelike  strain  ; 
And  the  tartan  clove  the  turban, 

As  the  Goomtee  cleaves  the  plain. 

Dear  to  the  corn-land  reaper 
And  plaided  mountaineer, — 


MY  PSALM.— LE  MARAIS  DU  CYGNE. 


179 


To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 
The  piper's  song  is  dear. 

Sweet  sounds  the  Gaelic  pibroch 
O'er  mountain,  glen,  and  glade  ; 

But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 
The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played  ! 


MY  PSALM. 

I  MOURN  no  more  my  vanished  years : 

Beneath  a  tender  rain, 
An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tear 

My  heart  is  young  again. 

The  west-winds  blow,  and,  singing  low, 
I  heir  the  glad  streams  run  ; 

The  v.'iadows  of  my  soul  I  throw 
Wide  open  to  the  sun. 

No  logger  forward  nor  behind 

I  look  in  hope  or  fear  ; 
But,  grateful,  take  the  good  I  find, 

The  best  of  now  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land, 

To  harvest  weed  and  tare ; 
The  manna  dropping  from  God's  hand 

Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff—  I  lay 

Aside  the  toiling  oar  ; 
The  angel  sought  so  far  away, 

I  welcome  at  my  door. 

The  airs  of  spring  may  never  play 

Among  the  ripening  corn, 
Nor  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  May 

Blow  through  the  autumn  morn ; 

Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian  look 
Through  fringkl  lids  to  heaven, 

And  the  pale  aster  in  the  brook 
Shall  see  its  image  given ; — 

The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes  of  praise. 

The  south-wind  softly  sigh, 
And  sweet,  calm  days  in  golden  haze 

Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less  shall  manly  deed  and  word 

Rebuke  an  age  of  wrong  ; 
The  graven  flowers  that  wreath  the  sword 

Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 

But  smiting  hands  shall  learn  to  heal, — 

To  build  as  to  destroy ; 
Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel 

That  I  the  more  enjoy. 

All  as  God  wills,  who  wisely  heeds 

To  give  or  to  withhold, 
And  knoweth  more  of  ail  my  needs 

Than  all  my  prayers  have  told  ! 

Enough  that  blessings  undeserved 
Have  marked  my  erring  track  ;  — 

That  wheresoe'er  my  feet  have  swerved, 
His  chastening  turned  me  back  ; — 

That  more  and  more  a  Providence 

Of  love  is  understood, 
Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 

Sweet  with  eternal  good ; — 


That  death  seems  but  a  covered  way 
Which  opens  into  light, 

Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 
Beyond  the  Father's  sight ; — 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 
Through  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  overpast, 
In  purple  distance  fair  ; — 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west- win ds  play  ; 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 


LE  MARAIS  DU  CYGNE.69 

A  BLUSH  as  of  roses 

Where  rose  never  grew 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch-grass, 

But  not  of  the  dew ! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  wild  bees  to  shun  ! 
A  stain  that  shall  never 

Bleach  out  in  the  sun  ! 

Back,  steed  of  the  prairies  ! 

Sweet  song-bird,  fly  back  ! 
Wheel  hither,  bald  vulture  ! 

Gray  wolf,  call  thy  pack  ! 
The  foul  human  vultures 

Have  feasted  and  fled  ; 
The  wolves  of  the  Border 

Have  crept  from  the  dead. 

From  the  hearths  of  their  cabins, 

The  fields  of  their  corn, 
Unwarned  and  unweaponed, 

The  victims  were  torn,  — 
By  the  whirlwind  of  murder 

Swooped  up  and  swept  on 
To  the  low,  reedy  fen-lands, 

The  Marsh  of  the  Swan. 

With  a  vain  plea  for  mercy 

No  stout  knee  was  crooked  ; 
In  the  mouths  of  the  rifles 

Right  manly  they  looked. 
How  paled  the  May  sunshine, 

O  Marais  du  Cygne  ! 
On  death  for  the  strong  life, 

On  red  grass  for  green  ! 

In  the  homes  of  their  rearing, 

Yet  warm  with  their  lives, 
Ye  wait  the  dead  only, 

Poor  children  and  wives  ! 
Pat  out  the  red  forge-fire, 

The  smith  shall  not  come ; 
Unvoke  the  brown  oxen, 

The  ploughman  lies  dumb. 

Wind  slow  from  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

O  dreary  death-train, 
With  pressed  lips  as  bloodless 

As  lips  of  the  slain  ! 
Kiss  down  the  young  eyelids, 

Smooth  down  the  gray  hairs  ; 
Let  tears  quench  the  curses 

That  burn  through  your  prayers. 


180 


THE  ROCK"  IX  EL  GHOR.—ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK. 


Strong  man  of  the  prairies, 

Mourn  bitter  and  wild  ! 
Wail,  desolate  woman  ! 

Weep,  fatherless  child ! 
But  the  grain  of  God  springs  up 

From  ashes  beneath, 
And  the  crown  of  his  harvest 

Is  life  out  of  death. 

Not  in  vain  on  the  dial 

The  shade  moves  along, 
To  point  the  great  contrasts 

Of  right  and  of  wrong : 
Free  homes  and  free  altars, 

Free  prairie  and  flood, — 
The  reeds  of  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

Whose  bloom  is  of  blood ! 

On  the  lintels  of  Kansas 

That  blood  shall  not  dry ; 
Henceforth  the  Bad  Angel 

Shall  harmless  go  by ; 
Henceforth  to  the  sunset, 

Unchecked  on  her  way, 
Shall  Liberty  follow 

The  march  of  the  day. 


UTHE  ROCK"  IN  EL  GHOR. 

DEAD  Petra  in  her  hill-tomb  sleeps, 
Her  stones  of  emptiness  remain  ; 

Around  her  sculptured  mystery  sweeps 
The  lonely  waste  of  Edom's  plain. 

From  the  doomed  dwellers  in  the  cleft 
The  bow  of  vengeance  turns  not  back ; 

Of  all  her  myriads  none  are  left 
Along  the  Wady  Mousa's  track. 

Clear  in  the  hot  Arabian  day 

Her  arches  spring,  her  statues  climb  ; 

Unchanged,  the  graven  wonders  pay 
No  tribute  to  the  spoiler,  Time  ! 

Unchanged  the  awful  lithograph 
Of  power  and  glory  undertrod, — 

Of  nations  scattered  like  the  chaff 
Blown  from  the  threshing-floor  of  God. 

Yet  shall  the  thoughtful  stranger  turn 
From  Petra' s  gates,  with  deeper  awe 

To  mark  afar  the  burial  urn 
Of  Aaron  on  the  cliffs  of  Hor ; 

And  where  upon  its  ancient  guard 

Thy  Rock,  El  Chor,  is  standing  yet,— 

Looks  from  its  turrets  desertward, 
And  keeps  the  watch  that  God  has  set. 

The  same  as  when  in  thunders  loud 
It  heard  the  voice  of  God  to  man, — 

As  when  it  saw  in  fire  and  cloud 
The  angels  walk  in  Israel's  van ! 

Or  when  from  Ezion-Geber's  way 
It  saw  the  long  procession  file, 

And  heard  the  Hebrew  timbrels  play 
The  music  of  the  lordly  Nile ; 

Or  saw  the  tabernacle  pause, 

Cloud-bound,  by  Kadesh  Barnea's  wells, 
While  Moses  graved  the  sacred  laws, 

And  Aaron  swung  his  golden  bells. 

Rock  of  the  desert,  prophet-sung ! 

How  grew  its  shadowing  pile  at  length, 
A  symbol,  in  the  Hebrew  tongue, 

Of  God's  eternal  love  and  strength. 


On  lip  of  bard  and  scroll  of  seer, 
From  age  to  age  went  down  the  name, 

Until  the  Shiloh's  promised  year, 
And  Christ,  the  Rock  of  Ages,  came  ! 

The  path  of  life  we  walk  to-day 

Is  strange  as  that  the  Hebrews  trod;' 

We  need  the  shadowing  rock,  as  they, — 
We  need,  like  them,  the  guides  of  God. 

God  send  his  angels,  Cloud  and  Fire, 
To  lead  us  o'er  the  desert  sand  ! 

God  give  our  hearts  their  long  desire, 
His  shadow  in  a  weary  land  ! 


ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK, 

WITH  ITS  FRONTISPIECE,  ART  SCHEFFER'S 
UCIIRISTUS  CONSOLATOK,"  AMERICANIZED  BY 
THE  OMISSION  OF  THE  BLACK  MAN. 

O  ART  SCHEFFER  !  when  beneath  thine  eye, 
Touched  with  the  light  that  cometh  from  above, 
Grew  the  sweet  picture  of  the  dear  Lord's  love, 
No  dream  hadst  thou  that  Christian  hands  would 

tear 
Therefrom  the  token  of  his  equal  care, 

And  make  thy  symbol  of  his  truth  a  lie  ! 
The  poor,  dumb  slave  whose  shackles  fall  away 
In  his  compassionate  gaze,  grubbed  smoothly 

out, 

To  mar  no  more  the  exercise  devout 
Of  sleak  oppressioji  kneeling  down  to  pray 
Where  the  great  oriel  stains  the  Sabbath  day  ! 
Let  whoso  can  before  such  praying-books 
Kneel  on  his  velvet  cushion  ;  I,  for  one, 
Would  sooner  bow,  a  Parsee,  to  the  sun, 
Or  tend  a  prayer-wheel  in  Thibetar  brooks, 
Or  beat  a  drum  on  Yedo's  temple-floor. 
No  falser  idol  man  has  bowed  before, 
In  Indian  groves  or  islands  of  the  sea, 

Than  that  which  through    the  quaint-carved 

Gothic  door 

Looks  forth, — a  Church  without  humanity  ! 
Patron  of  pride,  and  prejudice,  and  wrong, — 
The  rich  man's  charm  and  fetish  of  the  strong, 
The  Eternal  Fulness  meted,  clipped,  and  shorn, 
The  seamless  robe  of  equal  mercy  torn, 
The  dear  Christ  hidden  from  his  kindred  flesh, 
And,  in  his  poor  ones,  crucified  afresh  ! 
Better  the  simple  Lama  scattering  wide, 
Where    sweeps  the    storm    Alechan's  steppes 

along, 

His  paper  horses  for  the  lost  to  ride, 
And  wearying  Buddha  with  his  prayers  to  make 
The  figures  living  for  the  traveller's  sake, 
Than  he  who  hopes  with  cheap  praise  to  beguile 
The  ear  of  God,  dishonoring  man  the  while  ; 
Who  dreams  the  pearl  gate's  hinges,  rusty  grown, 
Are  moved  by  flattery's  oil  of  tongue  alone ; 
That  in  the  scale  Eternal  Justice  bears 
The    generous    deed    weighs    less    than    selfish 

prayers, 

And  words  intoned  with  graceful  unction  move 
The  Eternal  Goodness  more  than  lives  of  truth 

and  love. 

Alas,  the  Church  !— The  reverend  head  of  Jay, 
Enhaloed  with  its  saintly  silvered  hair, 
Adorns  no  more  the  places  of  her  prayer  ; 
And  brave  young  Tyng,  too  early  called  away, 
Troubles  the  Haman  of  her  courts  no  more 
Like  the  just  Hebrew  at  the  Assyrian's  door; 
And  her  sweet  ritual,  beautiful  but  dead 
As  the  dry  husk  from  which  the  grain  is  shed, 
And  holy  hymns  from  which  the  life  devout 
Of  saints  and  martyrs  has  well-nigh  gone  out, 


TO  J.  T.  F.— THE  PALM-TREE. 


181 


Like  candles  dying  in  exhausted  air, 
For  Sabbath  use  in  measured  grists  are  ground  ; 
And,  ever  while  the  spiritual  mill  goes  round, 
Between  the  upper  and  the  nether  stones, 
Unseen,     unheard,     the    wretched     bondman 

groans, 

And  urges  his  vain  plea,  prayer-smothered,  an 
them-drowned  ! 

O  heart  of  mine,  keep  patience  !  -Looking  forth, 
As  from  the  Mount  of  Vision,  I  behold. 

Pure,  just,  and  free,  the  Church   of   Christ  on 

earth, — 
The  martyr's  dream,  the  golden  age  foretold  ! 

And  found,  at  last,  the  mystic  Graal  I  see, 
Brimmed  with  His  blessing,  pass  from  lip  to 

lip 

In  sacred  pledge  of  human  fellowship  ; 
And  over  all  the  songs  of  angels  hear, — 
Songs  of  the  love  that  casteth  out  all  fear, — 
Songs  of  the  Gospel  of  Humanity  ! 
Lo  !  in  the  midst,  with  the  same  look  he  wore, 
Healing  and  blessing  on  Genesaret's  shore, 
Folding  together,  with  the  all-tender  might 

Of  his  great  love,  the  dark  hands  and  the  white, 
Stands  the  Consoler,  soothing  every  pain, 

Making  all  burdens  light,  and  breaking  every 
chain. 


TO  J.  T.  F. 

ON  A  BLANK  LEAF  OF  "  POEMS  PRINTED,  NOT 
PUBLISHED." 

WELL  thought !  who  would  not  rather  hear 
The  songs  to  Love  and  Friendship  sung 
Than  those  which  move  the  stranger's  tongue, 
And  feed  his  unselected  ear  '? 

Our  social  joys  are  more  than  fame ; 
Life  withers  in  the  public  look. 
Why  mount  the  pillory  of  a  book, 
Or  barter  comfort  for  a  name  ? 

Who  in  a  house  of  glass  would  dwell, 
With  curious  eyes  at  every  pane  ? 
To  ring  him  in  and  out  again, 
Who  wants  the  public  crier's  bell  ? 

To  see  the  angel  in  one's  way, 
Who  waits  to  play  the  ass's  part, — 
Bear  on  his  back  the  wizard  Art, 
And  in  his  service  speak  or  bray  ? 

And  who  his  manly  locks  would  shave, 
And  quench  the  eyes  of  common  sense, 
To  share  the  noisy  recompense 
That  mocked  the  shorn  and  blinded  slave  ? 

The  heart  has  needs  beyond  the  head, 
And,  starving  in  the  plenitude 
Of  strange  gifts,  craves  its  common  food, — 
Our  human  nature's  daily  bread. 

We  are  but  men  :  no  gods  are  we, 
To  sit  in  mid  -heaven,  cold  and  bleak, 
Each  separate,  on  his  painful  peak, 
Thin-cloaked  in  self-complacency ! 

Better  his  lot  whose  axe  is  swung 
In  Wartburg  woods,  or  that  poor  girl's 
Who  by  the  Ilm  her  spindle  whirls 
And  sings  the  songs  that  Luther  sung, 

Than  his  who,  old,  and  cold,  and  vain, 
At  Weimer  sat,  a  demigod, 
And  bowed  with  Jove's  imperial  nod 
His  votaries  in  and  out  again  ! 


Ply,  Vanity,  thy  winged  feet ! 
Ambition,  "hew  thy  rocky  stair  ! 
Who  envies  him  who  feeds  on  air 
The  icy  splendor  of  his  seat  ? 

I  see  your  Alps,  above  me,  cut 
The  dark,  cold  sky  ;  and  dim  and  lone 
I  see  ye  sitting, — stone  on  stone, — 
With  human  senses  dulled  and  shut. 

I  could  not  reach  you,  if  I  would, 
Nor  sit  among  your  cloudy  shapes ; 
And  (spare  the  fable  of  the  grapes 
And  fox)  I  would  not  if  I  could. 

Keep  to  your  lofty  pedestals  ! 
The  safer  plain  below  I  chooie  : 
Who  never  wins  can  rarely  lose, 
Who  never  climbs  as  rarely  falls. 

Let  such  as  love  the  eagle's  scream 
Divide  with  him  his  home  of  ice  : 
For  me  shall  gentler  notes  suffice, — 
The  valley-song  of  bird  and  stream  ; 

The  pastoral  bleat,  the  drone  of  bees, 
The  flail-beat  chiming  far  away, 
The  cattle-low,  at  shut  of  day, 
The  voice  of  God  in.  leaf  and  breeze  ! 

Then  lend  thy  hand,  my  wiser  friend, 

And  help  me  to  the  vales  below, 

(In  truth,  I  have  not  far  to  go,) 

Where  sweet  with  flowers  the  fields  extend. 


THE  PALM-TREE. 

Is  it  the  palm,  the  cocoa-palm, 

On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of  balm  ? 

Or  is  it  a  ship  in  the  breezeless  calm  ? 

A  ship  whose  keel  is  of  palm  beneath, 
Whose  ribs  of  palm  have  a  palm-bark  sheath, 
And  a  rudder  of  palm  it  steereth  with. 

Branches  of  palm  are  its  spars  and  rails, 
Fibres  of  palm  are  its  woven  sails, 
And  the  rope  is  of  palm  that  idly  trails  ! 

What  does  the  good  ship  bear  so  well  ? 
The  cocoa-nut  with  its  stony  shell, 
And  the  milky  sap  of  its  inner  cell. 

What  are  its  jars,  so  smooth  and  fine,- 
But  hollowed  nuts,  filled  with  oil  and  wine, 
And  the  cabbage  that  ripens  under  the  Line  ? 

Who  smokes  his  nargileh,  cool  and  calm  V 

The  master,  whose  cunning  and  skill  could  charm 

Cargo  and  ship  from  the  bounteous  palm. 

In  the  cabin  he  sits  on  a  palm-mat  soft, 
From  a  beaker  of  palm  his  drink  is  quaffed, 
And  a  palm-thatch  shields  from  the  sun  aloft ! 

His  dress  is  woven  of  palmy  strands, 

And  he  holds  a  palm-leaf  scroll  in  his  hands, 

Traced  with  the  Prophet's  wise  commands  ! 

The  turban  folded  about  his  head 

Was  daintily  wrought  of  the  palm-leaf  braid, 

And  the  fan  that  cools  him  of  palm  was  made. 

Of  threads  of  palm  was  the  carpet  spun 
Whereon  he  kneels  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  the  forehead  of  Islam  are  bowed  as  one  ! 


182 


LINES.— THE  BED  RIVER  VOYAGEUR.— KENOZA  LAKE. 


To  him  the  palm  is  a  gift  divine, 
Wherein  all  uses  of  man  combine, — 
House,  and  raiment,  and  food,  and  wine  ! 

And,  in  the  hour  of  his  great  release, 
His  need  of  the  palm  shall  only  cease 
With  the  shroud  wherein  he  lieth  in  peace. 

"  Allah  il  Allah  !  "  he  sings  his  psalm, 
On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of  balm  ; 
"Thanks  to  Allah  who  gives  the  palm !  " 


LINES, 

• 

READ  AT  THE  BOSTON  CELEBRATION  OF  THE 
HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  TUB  BIRTH 
OF  ROBERT  BURNS,  25TH  1ST  MO.,  1859. 

How  sweetly  come  the  holy  psalms 

From  saints  and  martyrs  down, 
The  waving  of  triumphal  palms 

Above  the  thorny  crown  ! 
The  choral  praise,  the  chanted  prayers 

From  harps  by  angels  strung, 
The  hunted  Cameron's  mountain  airs, 

The  hymns  that  Luther  sung  ! 

Yet,  jarring  not  the  heavenly  notes, 

The  sounds  of  earth  are  heard, 
As  through  the  open  minster  floats 

The  song  of  breeze  and  bird ! 
Not  less  the  wonder  of  the  sky 

That  daisies  bloom  below  ; 
The  brook  sings  on,  though  loud  and  high 

The  c]oudy  organs  blow! 

And,  if  the  tender  ear  be  jarred 

That,  haply,  hears  by  turns 
The  saintly  harp  of  Olney's  bard, 

The  pastoral  pipe  of  Burns, 
No  discord  mars  His  perfect  plan 

Who  gave  them  both  a  tongue ; 
For  he  who  sings  the  Jove  of  man 

The  love  of  God  hath  sung  ! 

To-day  be  every  fault  forgiven 

Of  him  in  whom  we  joy  ! 
We  take,  with  thanks,  the  gold  of  Heaven 

And  leave  the  earth's  alloy. 
Be  ours  his  music  as  of  spring, 

His  sweetness  as  of  flowers, 
The  songs  the  bard  himself  might  sing 

In  holier  ears  than  ours. 

Sweet  airs  of  love  and  home,  the  hum 

Of  household  melodies, 
Come  singing,  as  the  robins  come 

To  sing  in  door-yard  trees. 
And,  heart  to  heart,  two  nations  lean, 

No  rival  wreaths  to  twine, 
But  blending  in  eternal  green 

The  holly  and  the  pine  ! 


THE  RED  RIVER  VOYAGEUR. 

OUT  and  in  the  river  is  winding 
The  links  of  its  long,  red  chain 

Through  belts  of  dusky  pine-land 
And  gusty  leagues  of  plain. 

Only,  at  times,  a  smoke-wreath 

With  the  drifting  cloud-rack  joins, — 

The  smoke  of  the  hunting-lodges 
Of  the  wild  Assiniboins  ! 


Drearily  blows  the  north-wind 
From  the  land  of  ice  and  snow  ; 

The  eyes  that  look  are  weary, 
And  heavy  the  hands  that  row. 

And  with  one  foot  on  the  water, 

And  one  upon  the  shore, 
The  Angel  of  Shadow  gives  warning 

That  day  shall  be  no  more. 

Is  it  the  clang  of  wild-geese  ? 

Is  it  the  Indian's  yell, 
That  lends  to  the  voice  of  the  north-wind 

The  tones  of  a  far-off  bell  ? 

The  voyageur  smiles  as  he  listens 
To  the  sound  that  gjrows  apace ; 

Well  he  knows  the  vesper  ringing 
Of  the  bells  of  St.  Boniface. 

The  bells  of  the  Roman  Mission, 
That  call  from  their  turrets  twain, 

To  the  boatman  on  the  river, 
To  the  hunter  on  the  plain  ! 

Even  so  in  our  mortal  journey 
The  bitter  north-winds  blow, 

And  thus  upon  life's  Red  River 
Our  hearts,  as  oarsmen,  row. 

And  when  the  Angel  of  Shadow 
Rests  his  feet  on  wave  and  shore, 

And  our  eyes  grow  dim  with  watching 
And  our  hearts  faint  at  the  oar, 

Happy  is  he  who  heareth 

The  signal  of  his  release 
In  the  bells  of  the  Holy  City, 

The  chimes  of  eternal  peace  ! 


KENOZA  LAKE. 

As  Adam  did  in  Paradise, 

To-day  the  primal  right  we  claim  : 
Fair  mirror  of  the  woods  and  skies, 

We  give  to  thee  a  name. 

Lake  of  the  pickerel ! — let  no  more 

The  echoes  answer  back,  u  Great  Pond,n 

But  sweet  Kenoza,  from  thy  shore 
And  watching  hills  beyond, 

Let  Indian  ghosts,  if  such  there  be 
Who  ply  unseen  their  shadowy  lines, 

Call  back  the  andient  name  to  thee, 
As  with  the  voice  of  pines. 

The  shores  we  trod  as  barefoot  boys, 
The  nutted  woods  we  wandered  through, 

To  friendship,  love,  and  social  joys 
We  consecrate  anew. 

Here  shall  the  tender  song  be  sung, 
And  memory's  dirges  soft  and  low, 

And  wit  shall  sparkle  on  the  tongue, 
And  mirth  shall  overflow, 

Harmless  as  summer  lightning  plays 
From  a  low,  hidden  cloud  by  night, 

A  light  to  set  the  hills  ablaze, 
But  not  a  bolt  to  smite. 

In  sunny  South  and  prairied  West 
Are  exiled  hearts  remembering  still, 

As  bees  their  hive,  as  birds  their  nest, 
The  homes  of  Haverhill. 


TO  G.  B.  C.— THE  SISTERS.— LINES. 


183 


They  join  us  in  our  rites  to-day  ; 

And,  listening,  we  may  hear,  ere  long, 
From  inland  lake  and  ocean  bay, 

The  echoes  of  our  song. 

Kenoza  !  o'er  no  sweeter  lake 

Shall  morning  break  or  noon-cloud  sail,- 
No  fairer  face  than  thine  shall  take 

The  sunset's  golden  veil. 

Long  be  it  ere  the  tide  of  trade 

Shall  break  with  harsh-resounding  din 

The  quiet  of  thy  banks  of  shade, 
And  hills  that  fold  thee  in. 

Still  let  thy  woodlands  hide  the  hare, 
The  shy  loon  sound  his  trumpet-note, 

Wing- weary  from  his  fields  of  air, 
The  wild-goose  on  thee  float. 

Thy  peace  rebuke  our  feverish  stir, 
Thy  beauty  our  deforming  strife ; 

Thy  woods  and  waters  minister 
The  healing  of  their  life. 

And  sinless  Mirth,  from  care  released, 
Behold,  unawed,  thy  mirrored  sky, 

Smiling  as  smiled  on  Cana's  feast 
The  Master's  loving  eye. 

And  when  the  summer  day  grows  dim, 
And  light  mists  walk  thy  mimic  sea, 

Revive  in  us  the  thought  of  Him 
Who  walked  on  Galilee  ! 


TO  G.  B.  C. 

So  spake  Esaias  :  so,  in  words  of  flame, 
Tekoa's  prophet-herdsman  smote  with  blame 
The  traffickers  in  men,  and  put  to  shame, 

All  earth  and  heaven  before, 
The  sacerdotal  robbers  of  the  poor. 

All  the  dread  Scripture  lives  for  thee  again, 
To"  smite  like  lightning  on  the  hands  profane 
Lifted  to  bless  the  slave-whip  and  the  chain. 

Once  more  the  old  Hebrew  tongue 
Bends  with  the  shafts  of  God  a  bow  new-strung  ! 


So  come  to  me,  my  little  one, — 
My  years  with  thee  I  share, 

And  mingle  with  a  sister's  love 
A  mother's  tender  care. 

But  keep  the  smile  upon  thy  lip, 

The  trust  upon  thy  brow  ; 
Since  for  the  dear  one  God  hath  called 

We  have  an  angel  now. 

Our  mother  from  the  fields  of  heaven 

Shall  still  her  ear  incline  ; 
Nor  need  we  fear  her  human  love 

Is  less  for  love  divine. 

The  songs  are  sweet  they  sing  beneath 

The  trees  of  life  so  fair, 
But  sweetest  of  the  songs  of  heaven 

Shall  be  her  children's  prayer. 

Then,  darling,  rest  upon  my  breast, 
And  teach  my  heart  to  lean 

With  thy  sweet  trust  upon  the  arm 
Which  folds  us  both  unseen ! 


up  the  mantle  which  the  prophets  wore  ; 
i  with  their  warnings, — showth 


-show  the  Christ  once 


Take 

Warn  with  their 

more 
Bound,  scourged,  and  crucified  in  his  blameless 

poor ; 

And  shake  above  our  land 
The   unquenched  bolts   that   blazed   in   Hosea's 

hand  i 

Not  vainly  shalt  thou  cast  upon  our  years 
The  solemn  burdens  of  the  Orient  seers, 
And  smite  with  truth  a  guilty  nation's  ears. 

Mightier  was  Luther's  word 
Than  Seckingen's  mailed  armor  Hutton's  sword  ! 


THE  SISTERS. 

A  PICTURE  BY   BARRY. 

THE  shade  for  me,  but  over  thee 
The  lingering  sunshine  still ; 

As,  smiling,  to  the  silent  stream 
Comes  down  the  singing  rill. 


LINES, 

FOR  THE  AGRICULTURAL  AND  HORTICULTURAL 
EXHIBITION  AT  AMESBURY  AND  SALISBURY, 
SEPT.  28,  1858. 

THIS  day,  two  hundred  years  ago, 
The  wild  grape  by  the  river's  side, 

And  tasteless  groundnut  trailing  low, 
The  table  of  the  woods  supplied. 

Unknown  the  apple's  red  and  gold, 
The  blushing  tint  of  peach  and  pear  ; 

The  mirror  of  the  Powow  told 
No  tale  of  orchards  ripe  and  rare. 

Wild  as  the  fruits  he  scorned  to  till, 
These  vales  the  idle  Indian  trod  ; 

Nor  knew  the  glad,  creative  skill, — 
The  joy  of  him  who  toils  with  God. 

O  Painter  of  the  fruits  and  flowers  ! 

We  thank  thee  for  thy  w?se  design 
Whereby  these  human  hands  of  ours 

In  Nature's  garden  work  with  thine. 

And  thanks  thai;  from  our  daily  need 
The  joy  of  simple  faith  is  born  ; 

That  he  who  smites  the  summer  weed, 
May  trust  thee  for  the  autumn  corn. 

Give  fools  their  gold,  and  knaves  their  power  ; 

Let  fortune's  bubbles  rise  and  fall ; 
Who  sows  a  field,  or  trains  a  flower, 

Or  plants  a  tree,  is  more  than  all. 

For  he  who  blesses  most  is  blest  ; 

And  God  and  man  shall  own  his  worth 
Who  toils  to  leave  as  his  bequest 

An  added  beauty  to  the  earth. 

And,  soon  or  late,  to  all  that  sow, 
The  time  of  harvest  shall  be  given  ; 

The  flower  shall  bloom,  the  fruit  shall  grow, 
If  not  on  earth,  at  last  in  heaven. 


184 


THE  PREACHER. 


THE  PREACHER. 

ITS  windows  flashing  to  the  sky, 
Beneath  a  thousand  roofs  of  brown, 

Far  down  the  vale,  my  friend  and  I 
Beheld  the  old  and  quiet  town  ; 

The  ghostly  sails  that  out  at  sea 

Flapped  their  white  wings  of  mystery, 

The  beaches  glimmering  in  the  sun, 

And  the  low  wooded  capes  that  run 

Into  the  sea-mist  north  and  south  ; 

The  sand-bluffs  at  the  river's  mouth ; 

The  swinging  chain-bridge,  and,  afar, 

The  foam-line  of  the  harbor-bar. 

Over  the  woods  and  meadow-lands 

A  crimson-tinted  shadow  lay 

Of  clouds  through  which  the  setting  day 

Flung  a  slant  glory  far  away. 
It  glittered  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 

It  flamed  upon  the  city's  panes, 
Smote  the  white  sails  of  ships  that  wore 
Outward  or  in,  and  glided  o'er 

The  steeples  with  their  veering  vanes ! 

Awhile  my  friend  with  rapid  search 
O'erran  the  landscape.     4t  Yonder  spire 
Over  gray  roofs,  a  shaft  of  fire  ; 
What  is  it,  pray  ?  "— "  The  Whitefield  Church  ! 
Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
There  rest  the  marvellous  prophet's  bones." 
Then  as  our  homeward  way  we  walked, 
Of  the  great  preacher's  life  we  talked  ; 
And  through  the  mystery  of  our  theme 
The  outward  glory  seemed  to  stream, 
And  Nature's  self  interpreted 
The  doubtful  record  of  the  dead  ; 
And  every  level  beam  that  smote 
The  sails  upon  the  dark  afloat, 
A  symbol  of  the  light  became 
Which  touched  the  shadows  of  our  blame 
With  tongues  of  Pentecostal  flame. 

Over  the  roofs  of  the  pioneers 

Gathers  the  moss  of  a  hundred  years  ; 

On  man  and  his  works  has  passed  the  change 

Which  needs  must  be  in  a  century's  range. 

The  land  lies  open  and  warm  in  the  sun, 

Anvils  clamor  and  mill-wheels  run, — 

Flocks  on  the  hillsides,  herds  on  the  plain, 

The  wilderness  gladdened  with  fruit  and  grain  ! 

But  the  living  faith  of  the  settlers  old 

A  dead  profession  their  children  hold  ; 

To  the  lust  of  office  and  greed  of  trade 

A  stepping-stone  is  the  altar  made. 

The  Church,  to  place  and  power  the.  door, 

Rebukes  the  sin  of  the  world  no  more, 

Nor  sees  its  Lord  in  the  homeless  poor. 

Everywhere  is  the  grasping  hand, 

And  eager  adding  of  land  to  land  ; 

And  earth,  which  seemed  to  the  fathers  meant 

Bat  as  a  pilgrim's  wayside  tent, — 

A  nightly  shelter  to  fold  away 

When  the  Lord  should  call  at  the  break  of  day, — 

Solid  and  steadfast  seems  to  be, 

And  Time  has  forgotten  Eternity  ! 


But  fresh  and  green  from  the  rotting  roots 
Of  primal  forests  the  young  growth  shouts  ; 
Fiona  the  death  of  the  old  the  new  proceeds, 
And  the  life  of  truth  from  the  rot  of  creeds  : 
On  the  ladder  of  God,  which  upward  leads, 
The  steps  of  progress  are  human  needs. 
For  his  judgments  still  are  a  mighty  deep, 
And  the  eyes  of  his  providence  never  sleep : 
When  the  night  is  darkest  he  gives  the  morn  ; 
When  the  famine  is  sorest,  the  wine  and  corn  ! 


In  the  church  of  the  wilderness  Edwards  wrought, 

Shaping  his  creed  at  the  forge  of  thought ; 

And  with  Thor's  own  hammer  welded  and  bent 

The  iron  links  of  his  argument. 

Which  strove  to  grasp  in  its  mighty  span 

The  purpose  of  God  and  the  fate  of  man  ! 

Yet  faithful  still,  in  his  daily  round 

To  the  weak,  and  the  poor,  and  sin-sick  found, 

The  schoolman's  lore  and  the  casuist's  art 

Drew  warmth  and  life  from  his  fervent  heart. 

Had  he  not  seen  in  the  solitudes 

Of  his  deep  and  dark  Northampton  woods 

A  vision  of  love  about  him  fall  ? 

Not  the  blinding  splendor  which  fell  on  Saul, 

But  the  tenderer  glory  that  rests  on  them 

Who  walk  in  t  e  New  Jerusalem. 

Where  never  the  sun  nor  moon  are  known, 

But  the  Lord  and  his  love  are  the  light  alone  ! 

And  watching  the  sweet,  still  countenance 

Of  the  wife  of  his  bosom  rapt  in  trance, 

Had  he  not  treasured  each  broken  word 

Of  the  mystical  wonder  seen  and  heard  ; 

And  loved  the  beautiful  dreamer  more 

That  thus  to  the  desert  of  earth  she  bore 

Clusters  of  Eschol  from  Canaan's  shore  V 

As  the  barley-winnower,  holding  with  pain 
Aloft  in  waiting  his  chaff  and  grain, 
Joyfully  welcomes  the  far-off  breeze 
Sounding  the  pine-tree's  slender  keys, 
So  he  who  had  waited  long  to  hear 
The  sound  of  the  Spirit  drawing  near, 
Like  that  which  the  son  of  Iddo  heard 
When  the  feet  of  angels  the  myrtles  stirred, 
Felt  the  atiswer  of  prayer,  at  "last, 
As  over  his  church  the  afflatus  passed, 
Breaking  its  sleep  as  breezes  break 
To  sun-bright  ripples  a  stagnant  lake. 

At  first  a  tremor  of  silent  fear, 

The  creep  of  "the  flesh  at  danger  near, 

A  vague  foreboding  and  discontent, 

Over  the  hearts  of  the  people  went. 

All  nature  warned  in  sounds  and  signs  : 

The  wind  in  the  tops  of  the  forest  pines 

In  the  name  of  the  Highest  called  to  prayer, 

As  the  muezzin  calls  from  the  minaret  stair. 

Through  ceiled  chambers  of  secret  sin 

Sudden  and  strong  the  light  shone  in ; 

A  guilty  sense  of  his  neighbor's  needs 

Startled  the  man  of  title-deeds  ; 

The  trembling  hand  of  the  worldling  shook 

The  dust  of  years  from  the  Holy  Book ; 

And  the  psalms  of  David,  forgotten  long, 

Took  the  place  of  the  scoffer's  song. 

The  impulse  spread  like  the  outward  course 
Of  waters  moved  by  a  central  force  ; 
The  tide  of  spiritual  life  rolled  down 
From  inland  mountains  to  seaboard  town. 

Prepared  and  ready  the  altar  stands 

Waiting  the  prophet's  outstretched  hands 

And 'prayer  availing,  to  downward  call 

The  fiery  answer  in  view  of  all. 

Hearts  are  like  wax  in  the  furnace,  who 

Shall  mould,  and  shape,  and  cast  them  anew  ? 

Lo  !  by  the  Merrimack  WHITEFIELD  stands 

In  the  temple  that  never  was  made  by  hands, — 

Curtains  of  azure,  and  crystal  Avail, 

And  dome  of  the  sunshine  over  all ! — 

A  homeless  pilgrim,  with  dubious  name 

Blown  about  on  the  winds  of  fame ; 

Now  as  an  angel  of  blessing  classed, 

And  now  as  a  mad  enthusiast. 

Called  in  his  youth  to  sound  and  gauge 

The  moral  lapse  of  his  race  and  age, 

And,  sharp  as  truth,  the  contrast  draw 

Of  human  frailty  and  perfect  law  ; 


THE  PREACHER. 


185 


Possessed  by  the  one  dread  thought  that  lent 

Its  goad  to  his  fiery  temperament, 

Up  and  down  the  world  he  went, 

A  John  the  Baptist  crying, — Repent ! 

No  perfect  whole  can  our  nature  make  ; 
Here  or  there  the  circle  will  break ; 
The  orb  of  life,  as  it  takes  the  light 
On  one  side,  leaves  the  other  in  night. 
Never  was  saint  so  good  and  great 
As  to  give  no  chance  at  St.  Peter's  gate 
For  the  plea  of  the  Devil's  advocate. 
So,  incomplete  by  his  being's  law, 
The  marvellous  preacher  had  his  flaw  : 
With  step  unequal,  and  lame  with  faults, 
His  shade  on  the  path  of  History  halts. 

Wisely  and  well  said  the  Eastern  bard  : 
Fear  is  easy,  but  love  is  hard, — 
Easy  to  glow  with  the  Santon's  rage, 
And  walk  on  the  Meccan  pilgrimage  ; 
But  he  is  greatest  and  best  who  can 
Worship  Allah  by  loving  man. 

Thus  he, — to  whom,  in  the  painful  stress 
Of  zeal  on  fire  from  its  own  excess, 
Heaven  seemed  so  vast  and  earth  so  small 
That  man  was  nothing,  since  God  was  all, — 
Forgot,  as  the  best  at  times  have  done, 
That  the  love  of  the  Lord  and  of  man  are  one. 

Little  to  him  whose  feet  unshod 

The  thorny  path  of  the  desert  trod, 

Careless  of  pain,  so  it  led  to  God, 

Seemed  the  hunger-pang  and  the  poor  man's 
wrong, 

The  weak  ones  trodden  beneath  the  strong. 

Should  the  worm  be  chooser  ? — the  clay  with 
stand 

The  shaping  will  of  the  potter's  hand  ? 

In  the  Indian  fable  Arjoon  hears 
The  scorn  of  a  god  rebuke  his  fears : 
''Spare  thy  pity  !  "  Krishna  saith  : 
"Not  in  thy  sword  is  the  power  of  death  ! 
All  is  illusion, — loss  but  seems  ; 
Pleasure  and  pain  are  only  dreams  ; 
Who  deems  he  slayeth  doth  not  kill ; 
Who  counts  as  slain  is  living  still. 
Strike,  nor  fear  thy  blow  is  crime  ; 
Nothing  dies  but  the  cheats  of  time ; 
Slain  or  slayer,  small  the  odds 
To  each,  immortal  as  Indra's  gods ! " 

So  by  Savannah's  banks  of  shade, 
The  stones  of  his  mission  the  preacher  laid 
On  the  heart  of  the  negro  crushed  and  rent, 
And  made  of  his  blood  the  wall's  cement ; 
Bade  the  slave-ship  speed  from  coast  to  coast 
Fanned  by  the  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 
And  begged,  for  the  love  of  Christ,  the  gold 
Coined  from  the  hearts  in  its  groaning  hold. 
What  could  it  matter,  more  or  less 
Of  stripes,  and  hunger,  and  weariness  ? 
Living  or  dying,  bond  or  free, 
What  was  time  to  eternity  ? 

Alas  for  the  preacher's  cherished  schemes  ! 
Mission  and  church  are  now  but  dreams  ; 
I  Nor  prayer  nor  fasting  availed  the  plan 
To  honor  God  through  the  wrong  of  man. 
Of  all  feis  labors  no  trace  remains 
Save  the  bondman  lifting  his  hands  in  chains. 
The  woof  he  wove  in  the  righteous  warp 
Of  freedom-loving  Oglethorpe, 
Clothes  with  curses  the  goodly  land, 
Changes  its  greenness  and  bloom  to  sand ; 
And  a  century's  lapse  reveals  once  more 
The  slave-ship  stealing  to  Georgia's  shore. 
Father  of  Light !  how  blind  is  he 


Who  sprinkles  the  altar  he  rears  to  Thee 
With  the  blood  arid  tears  of  humanity  ! 

He  erred  :  Shall  we  count  his  gifts  as  naught  ? 
Was  the  work  of  God  in  him  unwrought  V 
The  servant  may  through  his  deafness  err, 
And  blind  may  be  God's  messenger  ; 
But  the  errand  is  sure  they  go  upon, — 
The  word  is  spoken,  the  deed  is  done. 
Was  the  Hebrew  temple  less  fair  and  good 
That  Solomon  bowed  to  gods  of  wood  V 
For  his  tempted  heart  and  wandering  feet, 
Were  the  songs  of  David  less  pure  and  sweet  ? 
So  in  light  and  shadow  the  preacher  went, 
God's  erring  and  human  instrument ; 
And  the  hearts  of  the  people  where  he  passed, 
Swayed  as  the  reeds  sway  in  the  blast, 
Under  the  spell  of  a  voice  which  took 
In  its  compass  the  flow  of  Siloa's  brook, 
And  the  mystical  chime  of  the  bells  of  gold 
On  the  ephod's  hem  of  the  priest  of  old, — 
Now  the  roll  of  thunder,  and  now  the  awe 
Of  the  trumpet  heard  in  the  Mount  of  Law. 

A  solemn  fear  on  the  listening  crowd 
Fell  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud. 
The  sailor  reeling  from  out  the  ships 
Whose  masts  stood  thick  in  the  river-slips, 
Felt  the  jest  and  the  curse  die  on  his  lips. 
Listened  the  fisherman  rude  and  hard, 
The  calker  rough  from  the  builder's  yard, 
The  man  of  the  market  left  his  load,   • 
The  teamster  leaned  on  his  bending  goad, 
!  The  maiden,  and  youth  beside  her,  felt 
j  Their  hearts  in  a  closer  union  melt, 
'  And  saw  the  flowers  of  their  love  in  bloom 
I  Down  the  endless  vistas  of  life  to  come. 
1  Old  age  sat  feebly  brushing  away 
From  his  ears  the  scanty  locks  of  gray  ; 
And  careless  boyhood,  living  the  free 
Unconscious  life  of  bird  and  tree, 
Suddenly  wakened  to  a  sense 
Of  sin  and  its  guilty  consequence. 
It  was  as  if  an  angel's  voice 
Called  the  listeners  up  for  their  final  choice ; 
As  if  a  strong  hand  rent  apart 
The  veils  of  sense  from  soul  and  heart, 
Showing  in  light  ineffable 
The  joys  of  heaven  and  woes  of  hell ! 
All  about  in  the  misty  air 
The  hills  seemed  kneeling  in  silent  prayer ; 
The  rustle  of  leaves,  the  moaning  sedge, 
The  water's  lap  on  its  gravelled  edge, 
The  wailing  pines,  and,  far  and  faint, 
The  wood-dove's  note  of  sad  complaint, 
To  the  solemn  voice  of  the  preacher  lent 
An  undertone  as  of  low  lament  ; 
And  the  rote  of  the  sea  from  its  sandy  coast, 
On  the  easterly  wind,  now  heard,  now  lost, 
Seemed  the  murmurous  sound  of  the  judgment 
host. 

Yet  wise  men  doubted,  and  good  men  wept, 
As  that  storm  of  passion  above  them  swept, 
And,  comet-like,  adding  flame  to  flame, 
The  priests  of  the  new  Evangel  came, — 
Davenport,  flashing  upon  the  crowd, 
Charged  like  summer's  electric  cloud, 
Now  holding  the  listener  still  as  death 
With  terrible  warnings  under  breath, 
Now  shouting  for  joy,  as  if  he  viewed 
The  vision  of  Heaven's  beatitude  ! 
And  Celtic  Tennant,  his  long  coat  bound 
Like  a  monk's  with  leathern  girdle  round, 
Wild  with  the  toss  of  unshorn  hair, 
And  wringing  of  hands,  and  eyes  aglare, 
Groaning  under  the  world's  despair  ! 
Grave  pastors,  grieving  their  flocks  to  lose, 
Prophesied  to  the  empty  pews 


186 


THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI. 


That  gourds  would  wither,  and  mushrooms  die, 

And  noisiest  fountains  run  soonest  dry, 

Like  the  spring  that  gushed  in  Newbury  Street, 

Under  the  tramp  of  the  earthquake's  feet, 

A  silver  shaft  in  the  air  and  light, 

For  a  single  day,  then  lost  in  night, 

Leaving  only,  its  place  to  tell, 

Sandy  fissure  and  sulphurous  smell. 

With  zeal  wing-clipped  and  white-heat  cool, 

Moved  by  the  spirit  in  grooves  of  rule, 

No  longer  harried,  and  cropped,  and  fleeced, 

Flogged  by  sheriff  and  cursed  by  priest, 

But  by  wiser  counsels  left  at  ease 

To  settle  quietly  on  his  lees, 

And,  self-concentred,  to  count  as  done 

The  work  which  his  fathers  scarce  begun, 

In  silent  protest  of  letting  alone, 

The  Quaker  kept  the  way  of  his  own, — 

A  non-conductor  among  the  wires, 

With  coat  of  asbestos  proof  to  fires. 

And  quite  unable  to  mend  his  pace 

To  catch  the  falling  manna  of  grace, 

He  hugged  the  closer  his  little  store 

Of  faith,  and  silently  prayed  for  more. 

And  vague  of  creed  and  barren  of  rite, 

But  holding,  as  in  his  Master's  sight, 

Act  and  thought  to  the  inner  light. 

The  round  of  his  simple  duties  walked, 

And  strove  to  live  what  the  others  talked. 

And  who  shall  marvel  if  evil  went 
Step  by  step  with  the  good  intent, 
And  with  love  and  meekness,  side  by  side, 
Lust  of  the  flesh  and  spiritual  pride  ? — 
That  passionate  longings  and  fancies  vain 
Set  the  heart  on  fire  and  crazed  the  brain  ? — 
That  over  the  holy  oracles 
Folly  sported  with  cap  and  bells  ? — 
That  goodly  women  and  learned  men 
Marvelling  told  with  tongue  and  pen 
How  unwearied  children  chirped  like  birds 
Texts  of  Scripture  and  solemn  words. 
Like  the  infant  seers  of  the  rocky  glens 
In  the  Puy  de  Dome  of  wild  Cevennes  : 
Or  baby  Lamas  who  pray  and  preach 
From  Tartar  cradles  in  Buddha's  speech  ? 

In  the  war  which  Truth  or  Freedom  wages 
With  impious  fraud  and  the  wrong  of  ages, 
Hate  and  malice  and  self-love  mar 
The  notes  of  triumph  with  painful  jar, 
And  the  helping  angels  turn  aside 
Their  sorrowing  faces  the  shame  to  hide. 
Never  on  custom's  oiled  grooves 
The  world  to  a  higher  level  moves, 
But  grates  and  grinds  with  friction  hard 
On  granite  boulder  and  flinty  shard. 
The  heart  must  bleed  before  it  feels, 
The  pool  be  troubled  before  it  heals  ; 
Ever  by  losses  the  right  must  gain, 
Every  good  have  its  birth  of  pain  ; 
The  active  Virtues  blush  to  find 
The  Vices  wearing  their  badge  behind, 
And  Graces  and  Charities  feel  the  fire 
Wherein  the  sins  of  the  age  expire : 
The  fiend  still  rends  as  of  old  he  rent 
The  tortured  body  from  which  he  went. 

But  Time  tests  all.     In  the  over-drift 

And  flow  of  the  Nile,  with  its  annual  gift, 

Who  cares  for  the  Hadji's  relics  sunk  "i 

Who  thinks  of  the  drowned-out  Coptic  monk  ? 

The  tide  that  loosens  the  temple's  stones, 

And  scatters  the  sacred  ibis-bones, 

Drives  away  from  the  valley-land 

That  Arab  robber,  the  wandering  sand, 

Moistens  the  fields  that  know  no  rain, 

Fringes  the  desert  with  belts  of  grain, 

And  bread  to  the  sower  brings  again. 


So  the  flood  of  emotion  deep  and  strong 
Troubled  the  land  as  it  swept  along, 
But  left  a  result  of  holier  lives, 
Tenderer  mothers  and  worthier  wives. 
The  husband  and  father  whose  children  fled 
And  sad  wife  wept  when  his  drunken  tread 
Frightened  peace  from  his  roof -tree's  shade, 
And  a  rock  of  offence  his  hearthstone  made, 
In  a  strength  that  was  not  his  own,  began 
To  rise  from  the  brute's  to  the  plane  of  man. 
Old  friends  embraced,  long  held  apart 
By  evil  counsel  and  pride  of  heart ; 
And  penitence  saw  through  misty  tears, 
In  the  bow  of  hope  on  its  cloud  of  fears, 
The  promise  of  Heaven's  eternal  years, — 
The  peace  of  God  for  the  world's  annoy, — 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  oil  of  joy  ! 

Under  the  church  of  Federal  Street, 

Under  the  tread  of  its  Sabbath  feet, 

Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 

Lie  the  marvellous  preacher's  bones. 

No  saintly  honors  to  them  are  shown, 

No  sign  nor  miracle  have  they  known  ; 

But  he  who  passes  the  ancient  church 

Stops  in  the  shade  of  its  belfry-porch, 

And  ponders  the  wonderful  life  of  him 

Who  lies  at  rest  in  that  charnel  dim. 

Long  shall  the  traveller  strain  his  eye 

From  the  railroad  car,  as  it  plunges  by, 

And  the  vanishing  town  behind  him  search 

For  the  slender  spire  of  the  Whitefield  Church 

And  feel  for  one  moment  the  ghosts  of  trade, 

And  fashion,  and  folly,  and  pleasure  laid, 

By  the  thought  of  that  life  of  pure  intent, 

That  voice  of  warning  yet  eloquent, 

Of  one  on  the  errands  of  Sngels  sent. 

And  if  where  he  labored  the  flood  of  sin 

Like  a  tide  from  the  harbor-bar  sets  in, 

And  over  a  life  of  time  and  sense 

The  church-spires  lift  their  vain  defence, 

As  if  to  scatter  the  bolts  of  God 

With  the  points  of  Calvin's  thunder-rod, — 

Still,  as  the  gem  of  its  civic  crown, 

Precious  beyond  the  world's  renown, 

His  memory  hallows  the  ancient  town  ! 


THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI. 70 

FROM  the  well-springs  of  Hudson,  the  sea.  cliffs 

of  Maine, 

Grave  men,  sober  matrons,  you  gather  again  ; 
And,  with  hearts   warmer  grown  as  your  heads 

grow  more  cool, 
Play  over  the  old  game  of  going  to  school. 

All  your  strifes  and  vexations,  your  whims  and 

complaints, 
(You  were  not  saints  yourselves,  if  the  children 

of  saints  !) 

All  your  petty  self-seekings  and  rivalries  done, 
Round  the  dear  Alma  Mater  your  hearts  beat  as 


How  widely  soe'er   you  have   strayed  from  the 

fold, 
Though  your    "thee"    has   grown    "you,"    and 

your  drab  blue  and  gold, 
To  the  old  friendly  speech  and  the  garb's  sober 

form, 
Like  the  heart  of    Argyle  to  the  tartan,   you 

warm. 

But,  the  first  greetings  over,  you  glance  round 

the  hall; 
Your  hearts  call  the  roll,  but  they  answer  not  oil : 


THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI. 


187 


Through  the  turf  green  above  them  the  dead  can-  i  All  the  f  oregleams  of  wisdom  in  santon  and  sage, 

not  hear  ;  |  In  prophet  and  priest,  are  our  true  heritage. 

Name  by  name,  in  the  silence,  falls  sad  as  a  tear  !  i 

!  The  Word  which  the  reason  of  Plato  discerned  ; 

In  love,  let  us  trust,  they  were  summoned  so  soon    The    truth,    as    whose    symbol    the   Mithra-fire 
From  the  morning  of  life,  while  we  toil  through  |  burned  ; 

its  noon ;  i  The    soul   of    the   world   which    the   Stoic   but 

They  were  frail  like  ourselves,  they  had  needs  guessed, 

like  our  own,  In  the  Light  Universal  the  Quaker  confessed  ! 

And  they  rest  as  we  rest  in  God's  mercy  alone. 

;  No  honors  of  war  to  our  worthies  belong  ; 

Unchanged  by  our  changes  of  spirit  and  frame,      |  Their  plain  stem  of  life  never  flowered  into  song ; 
Past,   now,   and  henceforward   the  Lord  is  the    But  the  fountains  they  opened  still  gush  by  tne 

same ;  wayi 

Though  we  sink  in  the  darkness,  his  arms  break  i  And  the  world  for  their  healing  is  better  to-day. 

our  fall, 
And  in  death  as  in  life,  he  is  Father  of  all !  j  He  who  lies  where  the  minster's  groined  arches 

curve  down, 

We  are  older  :  our  footsteps,  so  light  in  the  play   j  To  the  tomb-crowded  transept  of  England's  re- 
Of  the  far-away  school-time,  move  slower  to-  |  nown, 

day  ; —  j  The  glorious  essayist,  by  genius  enthroned, 

Here  a  beard  touched  with  frost,  there  a  bald,  ,  Whose  pen  as  a  sceptre  the  Muses  all  owned, — 

shining  crown, 

And  beneath  the  cap's  border  gray  mingles  with  '  Who  i}amgh  the  worl<rs  pantheon  walked  in  hi* 

pride, 

But  faith  should  be  cheerful,  and  trust  should  be  ;  i?et^ing  <?T 

„.!„,]  lAndinhctio  ,  .... 

And  o?r  follies  and  sins,  not  our  years,  make  us  j  To  Sild  °'er  or  blacken  Cach  Samt  ln  his  ^P*  ~ 

sad. 
Should  the  heart  closer  shut  as  the  bonnet  grows  •  How  vainly  he  labored  to  sully  with  blame 

prim,  j  The  white  bust  of  Penn,  in  the  niche  of    his 

And  the  face  grow  in  length  as  the  hat  grows  in  i  fame  ! 

brim  ?  j  Self-will  is  self -wounding,  perversity  blind  : 

1  On  himself  fell  the  stain  for  the  Quaker  designed  ! 
Life  is  brief,  duty  grave ;  but,  with  rain-folded  j 


wings, 

Of  yesterday's  sunshine  the  grateful  heart  sings  ; 
And  we,  of  all  others,  have  reason  to  pay 
The  tribute  of  thanks,  and  rejoice  on  our  way  ; 

For  the  counsels  that  turned  from  the  follies  of 

youth ; 
For  the  beauty  of  patience,  the  whiteness  of 

truth ; 
For  the  wounds  of  rebuke,  when  love  tempered 


For  the  sake  of  his  true-hearted  father  before 
him ; 

For  the  sake  of  the  dear  Quaker  mother  that  bore 
him ; 

For  the  sake  of  his  gifts,  and  the  works  that  out 
live  him, 

And  his  brave  words  for  freedom,  we  freely  for 
give  him  ! 

There  are  those  who  take  note  that  our  numbers 


its  edge  ;  are  small, — 

For  the  household's  restraint,  and  the  discipline's    j$ew  Gibbons  who  write  our  decline  and  our  fall ; 
hedge  ;  gut  the  Lord  of  the  seed-field  takes  care  of  his 

For  the  lessons  of  kindness  vouchsafed  to  the    And  the  world  shall  yet  reap  what  our  sowers 

least  have  sown  ! 

Of    the  creatures  of    God,  whether  human  or 

Bringing  hope  to  the  poor,  lending  strength  to  '  ?he  last  «*  *he  sect  to  his  fathers  may  go, 

the  frail  I  Leaving  only  his  coat  for  some  Barnum  to  show ; 


In  the  lanes  of  the  city,  the  slave-hut,  and  jail ; 

For  a  womanhood  higher  and  holier,  by  all 

Her  knowledge  of  good,  than  was  Eve  ere  her 

fall,- 

Whose  task-work  of  duty  moves  lightly  as  play, 
Serene  as  the  moonlight  and  warm  as  the  day  ; 

And,  yet  more,  for  the  faith  which  embraces  the 

whole, 

Of  the  creeds  of  the  ages  the  life  and  the  soul, 
Wherein  letter  and  spirit  the  same  channel  run, 
And  man  has  not  severed  what  God  has  made 

one  ! 

For  a  sense  of  the  Goodness  revealed  everywhere, 
As  sunshine  impartial,  and  free  as  the  air ; 
For  a  trust  in  humanity,  Heathen  or  Jew, 


|  But  the  truth  will  outlive  him,  and  broaden  with 

years, 

Till  the  false  dies  away,  and  the  wrong  disap 
pears. 

Nothing  fails  of  its  end.     Out  of  sight  sinks  the 

stone, 

In  the  deep  sea  of  time,  but  the  circles  sweep  on, 
Till  the  low-rippled  murmurs  along  the  shores 

run, 
And  the  dark  and  dead  waters  leap  glad  in  the 

sun. 

Meanwhile  shall  we  learn,  in  our  ease,  to  forget 
To  the  martyrs  of  Truth  and  of  Freedom  our 

debt  ?— 
Hide  their  words  out  of  sight,  like  the  garb  that 

they  wore, 


And  a  hope  for  all  darkness  The  Light  shineth  |  And  f      Barclay's  Apology  offer  one  more  ? 
through. 

Who  scoffs  at  our  birthright  ? — the  words  of  the  [  Shall  we  fawn  round  the  priestcraft  that  glutted 


seers, 

And  the  songs  of  the  bards  in  the  twilight  of 
years, 


the  shears, 
And  festooned  the  stocks  with  our  grandfathers' 


188 


BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE. 


Talk  of  Woolman's  unsoundness  ?—  count  Penn    Forgive  me,  dear  friends,  if  my  vagrant  thoughts 

heterodox  ?  seem 

And  take  Cotton    Mather    in  place    of    George    Like  a  school-boy's  who  idles  and  plays  with  his 
Fox  ? —  theme. 

Forgive  the  light  measure  whose  changes  display 
Make  our  preachers  war-chaplains  ? — quote  Scrip-    The  sunshine  and  rain  of  our  brief  April  day. 

ture  to  take 

The  hunted  slave  back,  for  Onesimus'  sake  ? —        There  are  moments  in  life  when  the  lip  and  the 
Go  to  burning  church-candles,  and  chanting  in  eye 

Try  the  question  of  whether  to  smile  or  to  cry  ; 
And  scenes  and  reunions  that  prompt  like  our  own 
The  tender  in  feeling,  the  playful  in  tone. 


choir, 
And  on  the  old  meeting-house  stick  up  a  spire  ? 


No  !  the  old  paths  we  '11  keep  until  better  are 
shown, 


I,  who  never  sat  down  with  the  boys  and  the  girls 


Credit  good  where  we  find  it,  abroad  or  our  own  ;     At  the  feet  of  your  Slocums,  and  Cartlands,  and 


And  while  "  Lo  here  "  and  "Lo  there"  the  mul 
titude  call, 
Be  true  to  ourselves,  and  do  justice  to  all. 

The  good  round  about  us  we  need  not  refuse, 
Nor  talk  of  our  Zion  as  if  we  were  Jews  ; 


Earles, — 
By  courtesy  only  permitted  to  lay 
On  your  festival's  altar  my  poor  gift,  to-day, — 

I  would  joy  in  your  joy :  let  me  have  a  friend's 
part 


But  why  shirk  the  badge  which  our  fathers  have    In  the  warmth  of  your  welcome  of  hand  and  of 


worn, 


heart, — 


Or  beg  the  world's  pardon  for  having  been  born?  |  On    your   play-ground  of    boyhood  unbend  the 

We  need  not  pray  over  the  Pharisee's  prayer, 
Nor  claim  that  our  wisdom  is  Benjamin's  share. 
Truth  to  us  and  to  others  is  equal  and  one  : 
Shall  we  bottle  the  free  air,  or  hoard  up  the  sun  ? 


brow's  care, 
And  shift  the  old  burdens  our  shoulders  must  bear. 

Long  live  the  good  School !  giving  out  year  by 

year 
Recruits  to  true  manhood  and  womanhood  dear  : 


Well  know  we  our  birthright  may  serve  but  to 

How  the  meanest  of  weeds  in  the  richest  soil    In  and  out  let  the  young  life  as  steadily  flow 

grow;  '  As  in  broad  Narragansett  the  tides  come  and  go  ; 

But  we  need  not  disparage  the  good  which  we    And  itg   sons  andbitg  daughters  in  prairie  and 

hold  ;  town 

Though  the  vessels  be  earthen,  the  treasure  is    Remember  its  honor  and  guard  its  renOwn. 
gold! 

Not  vainly  the  gift  of  its  founder  was  made  ; 
Not  pTay^B  fhe  stones  of  its  corner  were  laid  : 
The  f;iesJsirig  of  Him  whom  in  secret  they  sought 
Hasownedthe  good  work  which  the  fathers  have 


Enough  and  too  much  of  the  sect  and  the  name. 
What  matters  our  label,  so  truth  be  our  aim  ? 
The  creed  may  be  wrong,  but  the  life  may 


And  hearts  beat  the  same  under  drab  coats  or 
blue. 

So  the  man  be  a  man,  let  him  worship,  at  will, 
In  Jerusalem's  courts,  or  on  Gerizim's  hill. 
When  she  makes  up  her  jewels,  what  cares  yon 

good  town 
For  the  Baptist  of  WAYLAND,  the  Quaker  of 

BROWN  ? 

And  this  green,  favored  island,  so  fresh  and  sea- 
blown, 

When  she  counts  up  the  worthies  her  annals  have 
known, 

Never  waits  for  the  pitiful  gangers  of  sect 

To  measure  her  love,  and  mete  out  her  respect. 

Three  shades  at  this  moment  seem  walking  her 

strand, 
Each  with  head  halo-crowned,  and  with  palms  in 

his  hand, — 
Wise    Berkeley,   grave    Hopkins,    and,    smiling 

serene 
On  prelate  and  puritan,  Channing  is  seen. 

One  holy  name  bearing,  no  longer  they  need 
Credentials  of  party,  and  pass-words  of  creed  : 
The  new  song  they  sing  hath  a  threefold  accord, 
And  they  own  one  baptism,  one  faith,  and  one 
Lord  ! 

But  the  golden  sands  run  out :  occasions  like  these 


wrought. 

To  Him  be  the  glory  forever  ! — We  bear 

To  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  our  wheat  with  the 

tare. 
What  we  lack  in  our  work  may  He  find  in  our 

will, 
And  winnow  in  mercy  our  good  from  the  ill ! 


BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE. 

JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE  spake  on  his 

dying  day : 
"I  will  not   have  to  shrive  my  soul  a  priest  in 

Slavery's  pay. 
But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I  have 

striven  to  free, 
With  her  children,  from  the  gallows-stair  put  up 

a  prayer  for,  me  !" 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him  out  to 

die; 
And  lo  !  a  poor  slave-mother  with  her  little  child 

pressed  nigh. 
Then  the  bold,  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and  the  old 

harsh  face  grew  mild, 
As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks  and  kissed 

the  negro's  child ! 


Glide  swift  into  shadow,  like  sails  on  the  seas  :      {  The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  moment  fell 


While   we   sport   with   the  mosses   and  pebbles 

ashore, 
They  lessen  and  fade,  and  we  see  them  no  more. 


apart ; 

And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand  forgave 
the  loving  heart. 


FROM  PERUGIA. 


189 


That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  redeemed  the 

good  intent. 
And  round  the  grisly  fighter's  hair  the  martyr's 

aureole  bent ! 

Perish  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through  evil 
good  ! 

Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained  with 
human  blood  ! 

Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the  thought 
which  underlies ; 

Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the  Chris 
tian's  sacrifice. 

Nevermore  may  yon  Blue  Ridges  the  Northern 
rifle  hear, 

Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on  the 
negro's  spear. 

But  let  the  free-winged  angel  Truth  their  guard 
ed  passes  scale, 

To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might,  and  jus 
tice  more  than  mail ! 

So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in  array  ; 
In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the  winter 

snow  with  clay. 
She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she  dares 

not  harm  the  dove  ; 
And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall  open  wide 

to  Love ! 


FROM  PERUGIA. 

"The  thing  which  has  the  most  dissevered  the  people 
from  the  Pope, — the  unforgivable  thing, — the  breaking 
point  between  him  and  them, — has  been  the  encourage 
ment  and  promotion  he  gave  to  the  officer  under  whom 
were  executed  the  slaughters  of  Perima.  T/lat  made 
the  breaking  point  in  many  honest  hearts  that  had  clung 
to  him  before."1 — Harriet  Bzecher  titoice's  •'  Letters  frum 
Italu" 

THE  tall,  sallow  guardsmen  their  horse-tails  have 

spread, 

Flaming  out  in  their  violet,  yellow,  and  red  ; 
And  behind  go  the  lackeys  in  crimson  and  buff, 
And  the  chamberlains  gorgeous  in  velvet  and  ruff; 
Next,   in   red-legged  pomp,   come  the  cardinals 

forth, 
Each  a  lord  of  the  church  and  a  prince  of  the 

earth. 

What's  this  squeak  of  the  fife,  and  this  batter  of 

drum? 
Lo !    the    Swiss    of    the   Church  from   Perugia 

come,  — 

The  militant  angels,  whose  sabres  drive  home 
To  the  hearts  of  the   malcontents,   cursed   and 

abhoi'red, 
The  good  Father's  missives,  and  "  Thus  saith  the 

Lord !  " 
And  lend  to  his  logic  the  point  of  the  sword  ! 

O  maids  of  Etruria,  gazing  forlorn 

O'er  dark  Thrasymenus,  dishevelled  and  torn  ! 

O   fathers,  who    pluck  at  your  gray  beards  for 

shame  ! 

O  mothers,  struck  dumb  by  a  woe  without  name  ! 
Well    ye   know   how   the  Holy  Church  hireling 

behaves, 
And  his  tender  compassion  of  prisons  and  graves  ! 

There  they  stand,  the  hired  stabbers,  the  blood 
stains  yet  fresh, 

That  splashed  like  red  wine  from  the  vintage  of 
flesh,— 


Grim  instruments,  careless  as  pincers  and  rack 
How  the  joints  tear  apart,  and  the  strained  sinews 

crack ; 
But  the  hate  that  glares  on  them  is  sharp  as  their 

swords, 
And  the  sneer  and  the  scowl  print  the  air  with 

fierce  words  ! 

Off  with  hats,  down  with  knees,  shout  your  vivas 

like  mad  ! 

Here  's  the  Pope  in  his  holiday  righteousness  clad, 
From  shorn  crown  to  toe,-nail,  kiss-worn  to  the 

quick, 

Of  sainthood  in  purple  the  pattern  and  pick, 
Who  the  role  of  the  priest  and  the  soldier  unites, 
And,  praying  like  Aaron,  like  Joshua  tights  ! 

Is  this  Pio  Nono  the  gracious,  for  whom 
We  sang  our  hosannas  and  lighted  all  Rome  ; 
With    whose    advent   we   dreamed  the  new  era 

began 
When  the  priest  should  be  human,  the  monk  be 

a  man  ? 
Ah,  the  wolf 's  with  the  sheep,  and  the  fox  with 

the  fowl, 
When  freedom  we  trust  to  the  crozier  and  cowl ! 

Stand  aside,  men  of  Rome  !  Here  's  a  hangman- 
faced  Swiss — 

(A  blessing  for  him  surely  can't  go  amiss) — 

W  ould  kneel  down  the  sanctified  slipper  to  kiss. 

Short  shrift  will  suffice  him, — he 's  blest  beyond 
doubt ; 

But  there 's  blood  on  his  hands  which  would 
scarcely  wash  out, 

Though  Peter  himself  held  the  baptismal  spout ! 

Make  way  for  the  next !     Here 's  another  sweet 

son  ! 
j  What 's    this    mastiff-jawed  rascal    in    epaulets 

done  ? 

j  He  did,  whispers  rumor,  (its  truth  God  forbid  !) 
:  At  Perugia  what  Herod  at  Bethlehem  did. 
And  the  mothers  ? — Don't    name   them  ! — these 

humors  of  war 

They  who  keep  him  in  service  must  pardon  him 
for. 

.Hist !  here  's  the  arch-knave  in  a  cardinal's  hat, 
With  the  heart  of  a  wolf,  and  the  stealth  of  a  cat 
(As  if  Judas  and  Herod  together  were  rolled), 
Who  keeps,  all  as  one,  the  Pope's  conscience  and 

gold, 
Mounts    guard  on  the  altar,    and  pilfers  from 

thence, 
And  flatters  St.  Peter  while  stealing  his  pence  ! 

Who  doubts  Antonelli  ?    Have  miracles  ceased 
When  robbers  say  mass,  and  Barabbas  is  priest  ? 
When  the  Church  eats  and  drinks,  at  its  mystical 

board, 
The  true  flesh  and  blood  carved  and  shed  by  its 

sword, 
When  its  martyr,  unsinged,  claps  the  crown  on 

his  head, 
And  roasts,  as  his  proxy,  his  neighbor  instead  ! 

There  !  the  bells  jow  and  jangle  the  same  blessed 

way 
That  they  did  when  they  rang  for  Bartholomew's 

day. 
Hark  !  the  tallow-faced  monsters,  nor  women  nor 

boys, 

Vex  the  air  with  a  shrill,  sexless  horror  of  noise. 
Te  Deum  laudamus  ! — All  round  without  stint 
The  incense-pot  swings  with  a  taint  of  blood  in 't ! 

And  now  for  the  blessing  !     Of  little  account, 
You  know,  is  the  old  one  they   heard  on  the 
Mount. 


190 


FOR  AN  AUTUMN  FESTIVAL. —THY  WILL  BE  DONE. 


Its  giver  was  landless,  his  raiment  was  poor, 
No  jewelled  tiara  his  fishermen  wore  ; 
No  incense,  no  lackeys,  no  riches,  no  home, 
No  Swiss  guards  ! — We  order  things  better  at 
Rome. 

So  bless  us  the  strong  hand,  and  curse  us  the 

weak ; 

Let  Austria's  vulture  have  food  for  her  beak ; 
Let  the  wolf-whelp  of  Naples  play  Bomba  again, 
With  his  death-cap  of  silence,  and  halter,  and 

chain  ; 

Put  reason,  and  justice,  and  truth  under  ban  ; 
For  the  sin  unforgiven  is  freedom  for  man  ! 


FOR  AN  AUTUMN  FESTIVAL. 

THE  Persian's  flowery  gifts,  the  shrine 
Of  fruitful  Ceres,  charm  no  more  ; 

The  woven  wreaths  of  oak  and  pine 
Are  dust  along  the  Isthmian  shore. 

But  beauty  hath  its  homage  still. 
And  nature  holds  us  still  in  debt ; 

And  woman's  grace  and  household  skill, 
And  manhood's  toil,  are  honored  yet. 

And  we,  to-day,  amidst  our  flowers 
And  fruits,  have  come  to  own  again 

The  blessings  of  the  summer  hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain  ; 

To  see  our  Father's  hand  once  more 
Reverse  for  us  the  plenteous  horn 

Of  autumn,  filled  and  running  o'er 
With  fruit,  flower,  and  golden  corn  ! 


Once  more  the  liberal  year  laughs  out 
O'er  richer  stores  than  gems  or  gold  ; 

Once  more  with  harvest-song  and  shout 
Is  Nature's  bloodless  triumph  told. 

Our  common  mother  rests  and  sings, 
Like  Ruth,  among  her  garnered  sheaves  ; 

Her  lap  is  full  of  goodly  things, 
Her  brow  is  bright  with  autumn  leaves. 

O  favors  every  year  made  new  ! 

O  gifts  with  rain  and  sunshine  sent ! 
The  bounty  overrons  our  due, 

The  fulness  shames  our  discontent. 

We  shut  our  eyes,  and  flowers  bloom  on ; 

We  murmur,  but  the  corn-ears  fill ; 
We  choose  the  shadow,  but  the  sun 

That  casts  it  shines  behind  us  still. 

God  gives  us  with  our  rugged  soil 
The  power  to  make  it  Eden-fair, 

And  richer  fruits  to  crown  our  toil 
Than  summer-wedded  islands  bear. 

Who  murmurs  at  his  lot  to-day  ? 

Who  scorns  his  native  fruit  and  bloom  ? 
Or  sighs  for  dainties  far  away, 

Beside  the  bounteous  board  of  home  ? 

Thank  Heaven,  instead,  that  Freedom's  arm 
Can  change  a  rocky  soil  to  gold, — 

That  brave  and  generous  lives  can  warm 
A  clime  with  Northern  ices  cold. 

And  let  these  altars,  wreathed  with  flowers 
And  piled  with  fruits,  awake  again 

Thanksgivings  for  the  golden  hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain  ! 


WAR  TIME. 


TO  SAMUEL  E.  SEW  ALL 

AND 

HARRIET  W.  SEWALL, 

OP  MELROSE. 

OLOR  ISCANUS  queries  :  "Why  should  we 
Vex  at  the  land's  ridiculous  miserie  ?  " 
So  on  his  Usk  banks,  in  the  blood-red  dawn 
Of  England's  civil  strife,  did  careless  Vaughan 
Bemock  his  times.     O  friends  of  many  years  ! 
Though  faith   and  trust  are  stronger  than  our 

fears, 

And  the  signs  promise  peace  with  liberty, 
Not  thus  we  trifle  with  our  country's  tears 
And  sweat  of  agony.     The  future's  gain 
Is  certain  as  God's  truth  ;  but,  meanwhile,  pain 
Is  bitter  and  tears  are  salt :  our  voi.;es  take 
A  sober  tone  ;  our  very  household  songs 
Are  heavy  with  a  nation's  griefs  and  wrongs ; 
And  innocent  mirth  is  chastened  for  the  sake 
Of  the  brave  hearts  that  nevermore  shall  beat, 
The  eyes  that  smile  no  more,  the  unreturning 

feet! 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE. 

WE  see  not,  know  not ;  all  our  way 
Is  night,  with  Thee  alone  is  day  : 
From  out  the  torrent's  trouble  drift, 
Above  the  .storm  our  prayers  we  lift, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

The  flesh  may  fail,  the  heart  may  faint, 
But  who  are  we  to  make  complaint, 
Or  dare  to  plead,  in  times  like  these, 
The  weakness  of  our  love  of  ease  ? 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

We  take  with  solemn  thankfulness 
Our  burden  up,  nor  ask  it  less, 
And  count  it  joy  that  even  we 
May  suffer,  serve,  or  wait  for  Thee, 
Whose  will  be  done ! 

Though  dim  as  yet  in  tint  and  line, 
We  trace  Thy  picture's  wise  design, 
And  thank  Thee  that  our  age  supplies 
Its  dark  relief  of  sacrifice. 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 


A  WORD  FOR  THE  HOUR.— TO  JOHN  C.  FREMONT. 


191 


And  if,  in  our  unworthiness, 
Thy  sacrificial  wine  we  press  ; 
If  from  Thy  ordeal's  heated  bars 
Our  feet  are  seamed  with  crimson  scars, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

If,  for  the  age  to  come,  this  hour 
Of  trial  hath  vicarious  power, 
And,  blest  by  Thee,  our  present  pain, 
Be  Liberty's  eternal  gain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

Strike,  Thou  the  Master,  we  Thy  keys, 
The  anthem  of  the  destinies  ! 
The  minor  of  Thy  loftier's  train 
Our  hearts  shall  breathe  the  old  refrain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 


A  WORD  FOR  THE  HOUR. 

THE  firmament  breaks  up.     In  black  eclipse 

Light  after  light  goes  out.     One  evil  star, 

Luridly  glaring  through  the  smoke  of  war, 

As  in  the  dream  of  the  Apocalypse, 

Drags  others  down.     Let  us  not  weakly  weep 

Nor  rashly  threaten.     Give  us  grace  to  keep 

Our  faith  and   patience ;    wherefore   should   we 

leap 

On  one  hand  into  fratricidal  fight, 
Or,  on  the  other,  yield  eternal  right, 
Frame  lies  of  law,  and  good  and  ill  confound  ? 
What    fear    we?     Safe    on    freedom's    vantage- 
ground 

Our  feet  are  planted :  let  us  there  remain 
In  unrevengeful  calm,  no  means  untried 
Which  truth  can  sanction,  no  just  claim  denied, 
The  sad  spectators  of  a  suicide  ! 
They  break  the  links  of  Union  :  shall  we  light 
Tae  fires  of  hell  to  weld  anew  the  chain 
On  that  red  anvil  where  each  blow  is  pain  ? 
Draw  we  not  even  now  a  freer  breath, 
As  from  our  shoulders  falls  a  load  of  death 
Loathsome  as  that  the  Tuscan's  victim  bore 
When  keen  with  life  to  a  dead  horror  bound  ? 
Why  take  we  up  the  accursed  thing  again  V 
Pity,  forgive,  but  urge  them  back  no  more 
Who,  drunk  with  passion,  flaunt  disunion's  rag 
With  its  vile  reptile-blazon.     Let  us  press 
The  golden  cluster  on  our  brave  old  flag 
In  closer  union,  and,  if  numbering  less, 
Brighter  shall  shine  the  stars  which  still  remain. 
Wthlstmo.,  1861. 


EIN  FESTE  BURG  1ST  UNSER  GOTT. 
(LUTHER'S  HYMN.) 

WE  wait  beneath  the  furnace-blast 

The  pangs  of  transformation  ; 
Not  painlessly  doth  God  recast 
And  mould  anew  the  nation. 
Hot  burns  the  fire 
Where  wrongs  expire ; 
Nor  spares  the  hand 
That  from  the  land 
Uproots  the  ancient  evil 

The  hand-breadth  cloud  the  sages  feared 

Its  bloody  rain  is  dropping  ; 
The  poison  plant  the  fathers  spared 
All  else  is  overtopping. 
East,  West,  South,  North, 
It  curses  the  earth  ; 
All  justice  dies, 
And  fraud  and  lies 
Live  only  in  its  shadow. 


What  gives  the  wheat-field  blades  of  steel  ? 

What  points  the  rebel  cannon  ? 
What  sets  the  roaring  rabble's  heel 
On  the  old  star-spangled  pennon  ? 
What  breaks  the  oath 
Of  the  men  o'  the  South  ? 
What  whets  the  knife 
For  the  Union's  life  ?— 
Hark  to  the  answer :  Slavery  ! 

Then  waste  no  blows  on  lesser  foes 

In  strife  unworthy  freemen. 
God  lifts  to-day  the  veil,  and  shows 
The  features  of  the  demon  ! 
O  North  and  South, 
Its  victims  both, 
Can  ye  not  cry, 
u  Let  slavery  die  !  " 
And  union  find  in  freedom  ? 

What  though  the  cast-out  spirit  tear 

The  nation  in  his  going  ? 
We  who  have  shared  the  guilt  must  share 
The  pang  of  his  o'erthrowing  ! 
Whate'er  the  loss, 
Whate'er  the  cross, 
Shall  they  complain 
Of  present  pain 
Who  trust  in  God's  hereafter  ? 

For  who  that  leans  on  His  light  arm 

Was  ever  yet  forsaken  ? 
What  righteous  cause  can  suffer  harm 
If  He  its  part  has  taken  ? 
Though  wild  and  loud, 
And  dark  the  cloud, 
Behind  its  folds 
His  hand  unholds 
The  calm  sky  of  to-morrow  ! 

Above  the  maddening  cry  for  blood, 

Above  the  wild  war-drumming, 
Let  Freedom's  voice  be  heard,  with  good 
The  evil  overcoming. 
Give  prayer  and  purse 
To  stay  the  Curse 
Whose  wrong  we  share, 
Whose  shame  we  bear, 
Whose  end  shall  gladden  Heaven  ! 

In  vain  the  bells  of  "war  shall  ring 

Of  triumphs  and  revenges, 
While  still  is  spared  the  evil  thing 
That  severs  and  estranges. 
But  blest  the  ear 
That  yet  shall  hear 
The  jubilant  bell 
That  rings  the  knell 
Of  Slavery  forever  ! 

Then  let  the  selfish  lip  be  dumb, 

And  hushed  the  breath  of  sighing  ; 
Before  the  joy  of  peace  must  come 
The  pains  of  purifying. 
God  give  us  grace 
Each  in  his  place 
To  bear  his  lot, 
And,  murmuring  not, 
Endure  and  wait  and  labor  ! 


TO  JOHN  C.  FREMONT. 

THY  error,  Fremont,  simply  was  to  act 

A  brave  man's  part,  without  the  statesman's  tact, 

And,  taking  counsel  but  of  common  sense, 

To  strike  at  cause  as  well  as  consequence. 

O,  never  yet  since  Roland  wound  his  horn 


192 


THE  WATCHERS.— TO  ENGLISHMEN. 


At  Roncesvalles,  has  a  blast  been  blown 

Far-heard,  wide -echoed,  startling  as  thine  own, 

Haard  from  the  van  of  freedom's  hope  forlorn  ! 

it  had  been  safer,  doubtless,  for  the  time, 

To  flatter  treason,  and  avoid  offence 

To  that  Dark  Power  whose  underlying  crime 

Heaves  upward  its  perpetual  turbulence. 

Bat  if  thine  be  the  fate  of  all  who  break 

The  ground  for  truth's  seed,  or  forerun  their  years 

Till  lost  in  distance,  or  with  stout  hearts  make 

A  lane  for  freedom  through  the  level  spears, 

Still  take  thou  courage  !    God  has  spoken  through 

thee, 

Irrevocable,  the  mighty  words,  Be  free  ! 
The  land  shakes  with  them,  and  the  slave's  dull 

ear 

Tarns  from  the  rice-swamp  stealthily  to  hear. 
Who  would  recall  them  now  must  first  arrest 
The  winds  that  blow  down  from  the  free  North 
west, 

Ruffling  the  Gulf ;  or  like  a  scroll  roll  back 
The  Mississippi  to  its  upper  springs. 
Such  words  fulfil  their  prophecy,  and  lack 
But  the  full  time  to  harden  into  things. 


THE  WATCHERS. 

BESIDE  a  stricken  field  I  stood  ; 

On  the  torn  turf,  on  grass  and  wood, 

Hung  heavily  the  dew  of  blood. 

Still  in  their  fresh  mounds  lay  the  slain, 
But  all  the  air  was  quick  with  pain 
And  gusty  sighs  and  tearful  rain. 

Two  angels,  each  with  drooping  head 
And  folded  wings  and  noiseless  tread, 
Watched  by  that  valley  of  the  dead. 

The  one,  with  forehead  saintly  bland 
And  lips  of  blessing,  not  command, 
Leaned,  weeping,  on  her  olive  wand. 

The  other's  brows  were  scarred  and  knit, 
His  restless  eyes  were  watch-fires  lit, 
His  hands  for  battle-gauntlets  fit. 

"  How  long  !  " — I  knew  the  voice  of  Peace, — 
"  Is  there  no  respite  V — no  release  ? — 
When  shall  the  hopeless  quarrel  cease  ? 

"  O  Lord,  how  long*! — One  human  soul 
Is  more  than  any  parchment  scroll, 
Or  any  flag  thy  winds  unroll. 

"  What  price  was  Ellsworth's,  young  and  brave  ? 
How  weigh  the  gift  that  Lyon  gave, 
Or  count  the  cost  of  Winthrop's  grave  ? 

"  O  brother !  if  thine  eye  can  see, 
Tell  how  and  when  the  end  shall  be, 
What  hope  remains  for  thee  and  me." 

Then  Freedom  sternly  said :  "I  shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the  sun, 
When  human  rights  are  staked  and  won. 

"  I  knelt  with  Ziska's  hunted  flock, 
I  watched  in  Toussaint's  cell  of  rock, 
I  walked  with  Sidney  to  the  block. 

"  The  moor  of  Marston  felt  my  tread, 
Through  Jersey  snows  the  march  I  led, 
My  voice  Magenta's  charges  sped. 

"  But  now.  through  weary  day  and  night, 
I  watch  a  vague  and  aimless  fight 
Far  leave  to  strike  one  blow  aright. 


' '  On  either  side  my  foe  they  own : 

One  guards  through  love  his  ghastly  throne, 

And  one  through  fear  to  reverence  grown. 

"Why  wait  we  longer,  mocked,  betrayed, 

By  open  foes,  or  those  afraid 

To  speed  thy  coming  through  my  aid  ? 

"  Why  watch  to  see  who  win  or  fall  ? — 

I  shake  the  dust  against  them  all, 

I  leave  them  to  their  senseless  brawl. " 

" Nay,"  Peace  implored  :  "yet  longer  wait ; 
The  doom  is  near,  the  stake'is  great : 
God  knoweth  if  it  be  too  late. 

"  Still  wait  and  watch ;  the  way  prepare 
Where  I  with  folded  wings  of  prayer 
May  follow,  weaponless  and  bare." 

"  Too  late  !  "  the  stern,  sad  voice  replied, 
"  Too  late  !  "  its  mournful  echo  sighed, 
In  low  lament  .the  answer  died. 

A  rustling  as  of  wings  in  flight, 

An  upward  gleam  of  lessening  white, 

So  passed  the  vision,  sound  and  sight. 

But  round  me,  like  a  silver  bell 
Rung  down  the  listening  sky  to  tell 
Of  holy  help,  a  sweet  voice  fell, 

"Still  hope  and  trust,"  it  sang;   "  the  rod 
Must  fall,  the  wine-press  must  be  trod, 
But  all  is  possible  with  God  !  " 


TO  ENGLISHMEN. 

You  flung  your-  taun  I  across  the  wave  ; 

We  bore  it  as  became  us, 
Well  knowing  that  the  fettered  slave 
Left  friendly  lips  no  option  save 

To  pity  or  to  blame  us. 

You  scoffed  our  plea.     "  Mere  lack  of  will, 

Not  lack  of  power,"  you  told  us : 
We  showed  our  free-state  records  ;  still 
You  mocked,  confounding  good  and  ill, 
Slave-haters  and  slaveholders. 

We  struck  at  Slavery  ;  to  the  verge 

Of  power  and  means  we  checked  it ; 
Lo  !— presto,  change  !  its  claims  you  urge, 
Send.greetings  to  it  o'er  the  surge, 
And  comfort  and  protect  it. 

But  yesterday  you  scarce  could  shake, 

In  slave-abhorring  rigor, 
Our  Northern  palms  for  conscience'  sake : 
To-day  you  clasp  the  hands  that  ache 

With  "walloping  the  nigger  !  "  71 

O  Englishmen  ! — in  hope  and  creed, 
In  blood  and  tongue  oar  brothers  ! 

We  too  are  heirs  of  Runnymede  ; 

And  Shakespeare's  fame  and  Cromwell's  deed 
Are  not  alone  our  mother's. 

"  Thicker  than  water,"  in  one  rill 

Through  centuries  of  story 
Our  Saxon  blood  has  flowed,  and  still 
We  share  with  you  its  good  and  ill, 

The  shadow  and  the  glory. 

Joint  heirs  and  kinfolk,  leagues  of  wave 

Nor  length  of  years  can  part  us  : 
Your  right  is  ours  to  shrine  and  grave, 


ASTILEA  AT  THE  CAPITOL.— THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862. 


103 


The  common  freehold  of  the  brave, 
The  gift  of  saints  and  martyrs. 

Our  very  sins  and  follies  teach 

Our  kindred  frail  and  human  : 
We  carp  at  faults  with  bitter  speech, 
The  while,  for  one  unshared  by  each, 

We  have  a  score  in  common. 

We  bowed  the  heart,  if  not  the  knee, 
To  England's  Queen,  God  bless  her  ! 
We  praised  you  when  your  slaves  went  free 
We  seek  to  unchain  ours.     Will  ye 
Join  hands  with  the  oppressor  ? 

And  is  it  Christian  England  cheers 

The  bruiser,  not  the  bruised  ? 
And  must  she  run,  despite  the  tears 
And  prayers  of  eighteen  hundred  years, 

Amuck  in  Slavery's  crusade  ?      . 

O  black  disgrace  !  O  shame  and  loss 
Too  deep  for  tongue  to  phrase  on  ! 

Tear  from  your  flag  its  holy  cross, 

And  in  your- van  of  battle  toss 
The  pirate's  skull-bone  blazon  ! 


ASTR^EA  AT  THE  CAPITOL. 

ABOLITION    OF     SLAVERY    IN    THE     DISTRICT    OF 
COLUMBIA,  1862. 

WHEN  first  I  saw  our  banner  wave 

Above  the  nation's  council-hall, 

I  heard  beneath  its  marble  wall 
The  clanking  fetters  of  the  slave  ! 

In  the  foul  market-place  I  stood, 
And  saw  the  Christian  mother  sold, 
And  childhood  with  its  locks  of  gold, 

Blue-eyed  and  fair  with  Saxon  blood. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  I  held  my  breath, 

And,  smothering  down  the  wrath  and  shame 
That  set  my  Northern  blood  aflame, 

Stood  silent, — where  to  speak  was  death. 

Beside  me  gloomed  the  prison -cell 
Where  wasted  one  in  slow  decline 
,For  uttering  simple  words  of  mine, 

And  loving  freedom  all  too  well. 

The  flag  that  floated  from  the  dome 
Flapped  menace  in  the  morning  air ; 
I  stood  a  perilled  stranger  where 

The  human  broker  made  his  home. 

For  crime  was  virtue  :  Gown  and  Sword 
And  Law  their  threefold  sanction  gave, 
And  to  the  quarry  of  the  slave 

Went  hawking  with  our  symbol-bird. 

On  the  oppressor's  side  was  power  ; 

And  yet  I  knew  that  every  wrong, 

However  old,  however  strong, 
But  waited  God's  avenging  hour. 

I  knew  that  truth  would  crush  the  lie, — 
Somehow,  some  time,  the  end  would  be  ; 
Yet  scarcely  dared  I  hope  to  see 

The  triumph  with  my  mortal  eye. 

But  now  I  see  it !    In  the  sun 

A  free  flag  floats  from  yonder  dome, 
And  at  the  nation's  hearth  and  home 

The  justice  long  delayed  is  done. 

13 


Not  as  we  hoped,  in  calm  of  prayer, 
The  message  of  deliverance  comes, 
But  heralded  by  roll  of  drums 

On  waves  of  battle-troubled  air  ! — 

Midst  sounds  that  madden  and  appall, 
The  song  that  Bethlehem's  shepherds  knew 
The  harp  of  David  melting  through 

The  demon- agonies  of  Saul ! 

Not  as  we  hoped  ; — but  what  are  we  ? 
Above  our  broken  dreams  and  plans 
God  lays,  with  wiser  hand  than  man's, 

The  corner-stones  of  liberty. 

I  cavil  not  with  Him :  the  voice 
That  freedom's  blessed  gospel  tells 
Is  sweet  to  me  as  silver  bells, 

Rejoicing  !—  yea,  I  will  rejoice  ! 

Dear  friends  still  toiling  in  the  sun, — 
Ye  dearer  ones  who,  gone  before, 
Are  watching  from  the  eternal  shore 

The  slow  work  by  your  hands  begun, — 

Rejoice  with  me  !     The  chastening  rod 
Blossoms  with  love  ;  the  furnace  heat 
Grows  cool  beneath  His  blessed  feet 

Whose  form  is  as  the  Son  of  God ! 

Rejoice !     Our  Marah's  bitter  springs 
Are  sweetened ;  on  our  ground  of  grief 
Rise  day  by  day  in  strong  relief 

The  prophecies  of  better  things. 

Rejoice  in  hope  !    The  day  and  night 
Are  one  with  God,  and  one  with  them 
Who  see  by  faith  the  cloudy  hem 

Of  Judgment  fringed  with  Mercy's  light ! 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862. 

THE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 

The  charging  trumpets  blow  ; 
Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 

No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And,  calm  and  patient,  Nature  keeps 

Her  ancient  promise  well, 
Though  o'er  her  bloom  and  greenness  sweeps 

The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 

And  still  she  walks  in  golden  hours 

Through  harvest-happy  farms, 
And  still  she  wears  her  fruits  and  flowers 

Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 

What  mean  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 

This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 
The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of  grain 

And  yellow  locks  of  corn  ? 

Ah !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears, 

And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot ; 
But  even-paced  come  round  th°    ears, 

And  Nature  changes  not. 

She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter  grief, 
With  songs  our  groans  of  pain  ; 

She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and  leaf 
The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still,  in  the  cannon's  pause,  we  hear 
Her  sweet  thanksgiving-psalm  : 

Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 
She  shares  the  eternal  calm. 


194 


MITHRTDATES  AT  CHIOS.— THE  PROCLAMATION. 


She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 
The  fires  that  blast  and  burn  ; 

For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow 
She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees  with  clearer  eye  than  ours 
The  good  of  suffering  born, — 

The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her  flowers, 
And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

O,  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eyes ; 
And  make  her  fields  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies  ! 

O,  give  to  us  her  finer  ear  ! 

Above  this  stormy  din, 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

Ring  peace  and  freedom  in. 


MITHRIDATES  AT  CHIOS.72 

KNOW'ST  thou,  O  slave-cursed  land ! 
How,  when  the  Chian 's  cup  of  guilt 
Was  full  to  overflow,  there  came 
God's  justice  in  the  sword  of  flame 
That,  red  with  slaughter  to  its  hilt, 
Blazed  in  the  Cappadocian  victor's  hand  ? 

The  heavens  are  still  and  far ; 
But,  not  unheard  of  awful  Jove, 
The  sighing  of  the  island  slave 
Was  answered,  when  the  yEgean  wave 
The  keels  of  Mithridates  clove, 
And  the  vines  shrivelled  in  the  breath  of  war. 

f 

"  Robbers  of  Chios  !  hark," 
The  victor  cried,  u  to  Heaven's  decree  ! 
Pluck  your  last  cluster  from  the  vine, 
Drain  your  last  cup  of  Chian  wine  ; 
Slaves  of  your  slaves,  your  doom  shall  be, 
In  Colchian  mines  by  Phasis  rolling  dark." 

Then  rose  the  long  lament 
From  the  hoar  sea-god's  dusky  caves: 
The  priestess  rent  her  hair  and  cried, 
u  Woe  !  woe  !     The  gods  are  sleepless-eyed  !  " 
And,  chained  and  scourged,  the  slaves  of  slaves, 
The  lords  of  Chios  into  exile  went. 

"The  gods  at  last  pay  -well," 

So  Hellas  sang  her  taunting  song, 
"  The  fisher  in  his  net  is  caught, 
The  Chian  hath  his  master  bought ;  " 

And  isle  from  isle,  with  laughter  long, 
Took  up  and  sped  the  mocking  parable. 

Once  more  the  slow,  dumb  years 
Bring  their  avenging  cycle  round, 
And,  more  than  Hellas  taught  of  old 
Our  wiser  lesson  shall  be  told, 
Of  slaves  uprising,  freedom-crowned, 
To  break,  not  wield,  the  scourge  wet  with  their 
blood  and  tears. 


THE  PROCLAMATION. 

SAINT  PATRICK,  slave  to  Milcho  of  the  herds 
Of  Ballymena,  wakened  with  these  words  : 

"  Arise,  and  flee 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage,  and  be  free  !  " 


Glad  as  a  soul  in  pain,  who  hears  from  heaven 
The  angels  singing  of  his  sins  forgiven, 

And,  wondering,  sees 
His  prison  opening  to  their  golden  keys, 

He  rose  a  man  who  laid  him  down  a  slave, 
Shook  from  his  locks  the  ashes  of  the  grave, 

And  outward  trod 
Into  the  glorious  liberty  of  God. 

He  cast  the  symbols  of  his  shame  away  ; 
And,  passing  where  the  sleeping  Milcho  lay, 

Though  back  and  limb 

Smarted  with  wrong,  he  prayed,   ''God  pardon 
him !  " 

So  went  he  forth  ;  but  in  God's  time  he  came 
To  light  on  Uilline's  hills  a  holy  flame  ; 

And,  dying,  gave 
The  land  a  saint  that  lost  him  as  a  slave. 

j  O  dark,  sad  millions,  patiently  and  dumb 

j  Waiting  for  God,  your  hour,  at  last,  has  come, 

And  freedom's  song 
;  Breaks  the  long  silence  of  your  night  of  wrong. 

i  Arise  and  flee  !  shake  off  the  vile  restraint 
Of  ages  ;  but,  like  Ballymena' s  saint, 

The  oppressor  spare, 
Heap  only  on  his  head  the  coals  of  prayer. 

Go  forth,  like  him  !  like  him  return  again, 
To  bless  the  land  whereon  in  bitter  pain 

Ye  toiled  at  first, 
And  heal  with  freedom  what  your  slavery  cursed. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

[Read  before  the  Alumni  of  the  Friends1  Yearly  Meet 
ing  School,  at  the  Annual  Meeting  at  Newport,  B.  1., 
15th  6th  mo.,  1863.] 

ONCE  more,  dear  friends,  you  meet  beneath 

A  clouded  sky ; 

Not  yet  the  sword  has  found  its  sheath, 
And  on  the  sweet  spring  airs  the  breath 

Of  war  floats  by. 

Yet  trouble  springs  not  from  the  ground, 

Nor  pain  from  chance  ; 
The  Eternal  order  circles  round, 
And  wave  and  storm  find  mete  and  bound 

In  Providence. 

Full  long  our  feet  the  flowery  ways 

Of  peace  have  trod, 

Content  with  creed  and  garb  and  phrase  : 
A  harder  path  in  earlier  days 

Led  up  to  God. 

Too  cheaply  truths,  once  purchased  dear, 

Are  made  our  own  ; 
Too  long  the  world  has  smiled  to  hear 
Our  boast  of  full  corn  in  the  ear 

By  others  sown ; 

To  see  us  stir  the  martyr  fires 

Of  long  ago, 

And  wrap  our  satisfied  desires 
In  the  singed  mantles  that  our  sires 

Have  dropped  below. 

But  now  the  cross  our  worthies  bore 

On  us  is  laid  ; 

Profession's  quiet  sleep  is  o'er, 
And  in  the  scale  of  truth  once  more 

Our  faith  is  weighed. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM.— AT  PORT  ROYAL. 


195 


The  cry  of  innocent  blood  at  last 

Is  calling  down 

An  answer  in  the  whirlwind-blast, 
The  thunder  and  the  shadow  cast 

From  Heaven's  dark  frown. 

The  land  is  red  with  judgments.     Who 

Stands  guiltless  fortn  V 
Have  we  been  faithful  as  we  knew, 
To  God  and  to  our  brother  true, 

To  Heaven  and  Earth  V 

How  faint,  through  din  of  merchandise 

And  count  of  gain, 

Have  seemed  to  us  the  captive's  cries  ! 
How  far  away  the  tears  and  sighs 

Of  souls  'in  pain  ! 

This  day  the  fearful  reckoning  comes 

To  each  and  all ; 

We  hear  amidst  our  peaceful  homes 
The  summons  of  the  conscript  drums, 

The  bugle's  call. 

Our  path  is  plain  ;  the  war-net  draws 

Round  us  in  vain, 

While,  faithful  to  the  Higher  Cause, 
We  keep  our  fealty  to  the  laws 

Through  patient  pain. 

The  levelled  gun,  the  battle-brand, 

We  may  not  take  : 
But,  calmly  loyal,  we  can  stand 
And  suffer  with  our  suffering  land 

For  conscience'  sake. 

Why  ask  for  ease  where  all  is  pain  ? 

Shall  we  alone 

Be  left  to  add  our  gain  to  gain, 
When  over  Armageddon's  plain 

The  trump  is  blown  ? 

To  suffer  well  is  well  to  serve  ; 

Safe  in  our  Lord 

The  rigid  lines  of  law  shall  curve 
To  spare  us  ;  from  our  heads  shall  swerve 

Its  smiting  sword. 

And  light  is  mingled  with  the  gloom, 

And  joy  with  grief ; 
Divinest  compensations  come, 
Through  thorns  of  judgment  mercies  bloom 

In  sweet  relief. 

Thanks  for  our  privilege  to  bless, 

By  word  and  deed, 
The  widow  in  her  keen  distress, 
The  childless  and  the  fatherless, 

The  hearts  that  bleed  ! 

For  fields  of  duty,  opening  wide, 

Where  all  our  powers 
Are  tasked  the  eager  steps  to  guide 
Of  millions  on  a  path  untried  : 

THE  SLAVE  is  OURS  ! 

Ours  by  traditions  dear  and  old, 

Which  make  the  race 
Our  wards  to  cherish  and  uphold, 
And  cast  their  freedom  in  the  mould 

Of  Christian  grace. 

And  we  may  tread  the  sick-bed  floors 

Where  strong  men  pine, 
And,  down  tho  groaning  corridors, 
Pour  freely  from  our  liberal  stores 

The  oil  and 


Who  murmurs  that  in  these  dark  days 

His  lot  it  cast  ? 

God's  hand  within  the  shadow  lays 
The  stones  whereon  His  gates  of  praise 

Shall  rise  at  last. 

Turn  and  o'erturn,  O  outstretched  Hand ! 

Nor  stint,  nor  stay  ; 

The  years  have  never  dropped  their  sand 
On  mortal  issue  vast  and  grand 

As  ours  to-day. 

Already,  on  the  sable  ground 

Of  man's  despair 

Is  Freedom's  glorious  picture  found, 
With  all  its  dusky  hands  unbound 

Upraised  in  prayer. 

O,  small  shall  seem  all  sacrifice 

And  pain  and  loss, 

When  God  shall  wipe  the  weeping  eyes, 
For  suffering  give  the  victor's  prize, 

The  crown  for  cross  ! 


AT  PORT  ROYAL. 

THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 

The  ship-lights  on  the  sea  ; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  sand 

Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing ; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song  : 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong  ; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please  ; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 

Has  filled  the  West  with  light, 
Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre, 

Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 

The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast ; 
From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate 

The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 

Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles  : 
Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 

That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 

They  weave  in  simple  lays 
The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 

The  hope  of  better  days, — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds : 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tor/gue 

Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


SONG  OF  THE  NEGRO  BOATMEN. 

O,  praise  an'  tanks  !     De  Lord  he  come 
To  set  de  people  free ; 


196 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 


An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 
De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den  ; 
He  say  de  word  :  we  las'  night  slaves  ; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 
De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 


Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone  ; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind  : 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on, 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold  ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 
De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  pray  de  Lord  :  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free  ; 
De  norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea  ; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream  ; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 
De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 

An'  nebber  lie  de  word  ; 
So  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail, 

We  waited  for  de  Lord : 
An'  now  he  open  ebery  door, 

An '  trow  away  de  key ; 
He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 
We  lub  him  better  free. 
De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

'  He  '11  gib  de  rice  an'  corn ; 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 


So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers ; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny ; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song ;  each  swarthy  face, 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still : 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill ; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed  ; 
And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 

We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts !  your  chant  shall  be 
Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom, — 

The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 
Or  death-nine  of  our  doom ! 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 

UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain -wall,  - 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten  ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down  ; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced  :  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt !  " — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
"  Fire  !  " — out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came  ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word  : 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog !     March  on  !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION". 


197 


And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her  !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stone  wall's  bier. 


Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave  ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town 


She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill." 


BALLADS. 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION.73 

THE  beaver  cut  his  timber 

With  patient  teeth  that  day, 
The  minks  were  fish-wards,  and  the  crows 

Surveyors  of  highway, — 

Whsn  Keezar  sat  on  the  hillside 

Upon  his  cobbler's  form. 
Witn  a  pan  of  coals  on  either  hand 

To  keep  his  waxed-ends  warm. 

And  there,  in  the  golden  weather, 

He  stitched  and  hammered  and  sung ; 

In  the  brook  he  moistened  his  leather, 
In  the  pewter  mug  his  tongue- 


Well  knew  the  tough  old  Teuton 
Who  brewed  the  stoutest  ale, 

And  he  paid  the  goodwife's  reckoning 
In  the  coin  of  song  and  tale. 

The  songs  they  still  are  singing 
Who  dress  the  hills  of  vine, 

The  tales  that  haunt  the  Brocken 
And  whisper  down  the  Rhine. 

Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 
The  swift  stream  wound  away, 

Through  birches  and  scarlet  maples 
Flashing  in  foam  and  spray, — 

Down  on  the  sharp-horned  ledges 
Plunging  in  steep  cascade, 

Tossing  its  white-maned  waters 
Against  the  hemlock's  shade. 


198 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION. 


"  Keezar  sat  on  the  hillside.1 


Woodsy  and  wide  and  lonesome, 
East  and  west  and  north  and  south  ; 

Only  the  village  of  fishers 
Down  at  the  river's  mouth  ; 

Only  here  and  there  a  clearing, 
With  its  farm-house  rude  and  new, 

And  tree-stumps,  swart  as  Indians, 
Where  the  scanty  harvest  grew. 

No  shout  of  home-bound  reapers, 

No  vintage-song  he  heard, 
And  on  the  green  no  dancing  feet 

The  merry  violin  stirred. 

' '  Why  should  folk  be  glum, "  said  Keezar, 

"  When  Nature  herself  is  glad, 
And  the  painted  woods  are  laughing 

At  the  faces  so  sour  and  sad  ?  " 

Small  heed  had  the  careless  cobbler 
What  sorrow  of  heart  was  theirs 

Who  travailed  in  pain  with  the  births  of  God, 
And  planted  a  state  with  prayers, — 

Hunting  of  witches  and  warlocks, 

Smiting  the  heathen  horde, — 
One  hand  on  the  mason's  trowel, 

And  one  on  the  soldier's  sword  ! 

But  give  him  his  ale  and  cider, 

Give  him  his  pipe  and  song, 
Little  he  cared  lor  Church  or  State, 

Or  the  balance  of  right  and  wrong. 

u  'T  is  work,  work,  work,"  he  muttered, — 
"  And  for  rest  a  snuffle  of  psalms  !  " 

He  smote  on  his  leathern  apron 
With  his  brown  and  waxen  palms. 


u  O  for  the  purple  harvests 
Of  the  days  when  I  was  young  ! 

For  the  merry  grape-ntained  maidens, 
And  the  pleasant  songs  they  sung  ! 

u  O  for  the  breath  of  vineyards, 
Of  apples  and  nuts  and  wine  ! 

For  an  oar  to  row  and  a  breeze  to  bit  w 
Down  the  grand  old  river  Rhine  !  " 

A  tear  in  his  blue  eye  glistened, 
And  dropped  on  his  beard  so  gray. 

"Old, -old  am  I,"  said  Keezar, 
"  And  the  Rhine  flows  far  away  !  " 

But  a  cunning  man  was  the  cobbler  ; 

He  could  call  the  birds  from  the  trees, 
Charm  the  black  snake  out  of  the  ledges, 

And  bring  back  the  swarming  bees. 

All  the  virtues  of  herbs  and  metals, 
All  the  lore  of  the  woods,  he  knew, 

And  the  arts  of  the  Old  World  mingled 
With  the  marvels  of  the  New. 

Well  he  knew  the  tricks  of  magic, 
And  the  lapstone  on  his  knee 

Had  the  gift  of  the  Mormon's  goggles 
Or  the  stone  of  Doctor  Dee. 

For  the  mighty  master  Agrippa 
Wrought  it  with  spell  and  rhyme 

From  a  fragment  of  mystic  moonstone 
In  the  tower  of  Nettesheim. 

To  a  cobbler  Minnesinger 

The  marvellous  stone  gave  he, — 

And  he  gave  it,  in  turn,  to  Keezar, 
Who  brought  it  over  the  sea. 


AMY  WENTWOETH. 


199 


He  held  up  that  mystic  lapstone, 

He  held  it  up  like  a  lens, 
And  he  counted  the  long  years  coming 

By  twenties  and  by  tens. 

"  One  hundred  years,"  quoth  Keezar, 

11  And  fifty  have  I  told  : 
Now  open  the  new  before  me, 

And  shut  me  out  the  old  !  " 

Like  a  cloud  of  mist,  the  blackness 

Rolled  from  the  magic  stone, 
And  a  marvellous  picture  mingled 

The  unknown  and  the  known. 

Still  ran  the  stream  to  the  river, 

And  river  and  ocean  joined  ; 
And  there  were  the  bluff's  and  the  blue  sea-line, 

And  cold  north  hills  behind. 

But  the  mighty  forest  was  broken 

By  many  a  steepled  town, 
By  many  a  white-walled  farm-house, 

And  many  a  garner  brown. 

Turning  a  score  of  mill-wheels, 

The  stream  no  more  ran  free ; 
White  sails  on  the  winding  river, 

White  sails  on  the  far-oft'  sea. 

Below  in  the  noisy  village 

The  flags  were  floating  gay, 
And  shone  on  a  thousand  faces 

The  light  of  a  holiday. 

Swiftly  the  rival  ploughmen 

Turned  the  brown  earth  from  their  shares ; 
Here  were  the  farmer's  treasures, 

There  were  the  craftsman's  wares. 

Golden  the  goodwife's  butter, 

Ruby  her  cur  rant- wine  ; 
Grand  were  the  strutting  turkeys, 

Fat  were  the  beeves  and  swine. 

Yellow  and  red  were  the  apples, 

And  the  ripe  pears  russet-brown, 
And  the  peaches  had  stolen  blushes 

From  the  girls  who  shook  them  down. 

And  with  blooms  of  hill  and  wild-wood, 

That  shame  the  toil  of  art, 
Mingled  the  gorgeous  blossoms 

Ol  the  garden's  tropic  heart. 

' '  What  is  it  I  see  ?  "  said  Keezar  : 

"  Am  I  here,  or  am  I  there  ? 
Is  it  a  fete  at  Bingen  ? 

Do  I  look  on  Frankfort  fair  ? 

"  But  where  are  the  clowns  and  puppets, 

And  imps  with  horns  and  tail  ? 
And  where  are  the  Rhenish  flagons  ? 

And  where  is  the  foaming  ale  ? 

"  Strange  things,  I  know,  will  happen, — 
Strange  things  the  Lord  permits  ; 

But  that  drougiity  folk  should  be  jolly 
Puzzles  my  poor  old  wits. 

"  Here  are  smiling  manly  faces, 

And  the  maiden's  step  is  gay ; 
Nor  sad  by  thinking,  nor  mad  by  drinking, 

Nor  mopes,  nor  fools,  are  they. 

"  Here  's  pleasure  without  regretting, 

And  good  without  abuse, 
The  holiday  and  the  bridal 

Of  beauty  and  of  use. 


"  Here  's  a  priest  and  there  is  a  Quaker, — 

Do  the  cat  and  dog  agree  ? 
Have  they  burned  the  stocks  for  oven-wood  ? 

Have  they  cut  down  the  gallows-tree 

"  Would  the  old  folk  know  their  children  ? 

Would  they  own  the  graceless  town, 
With  never  a  ranter  to  worry 

And  never  a  witch  to  drown  ?  " 

Loud  laughed  the  cobbler  Keezar, 
Laughed  like  a  school-boy  gay  ; 

Tossing  his  arms  above  him, 
The  lapstone  rolled  away. 

It  rolled  down  the  rugged  hillside, 

It  spun  like  a  wheel  bewitched, 
It  plunged  through  the  leaning  willows, 

And  into  the  river  pitched. 

There,  in  the  deep,  dark  water, 

The  magic  stone  lies  still, 
Under  the  leaning  willows 

In  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 

But  oft  the  idle  fisher 

Sits  on  the  shadowy  bank, 
And  his  dreams  make  marvellous  pictures 

Where  the  wizard's  lapstone  sank. 

And  still,  in  the  summer  twilights, 

When  the  river  seems  to  run 
Out  from  the  inner  glory, 

Warm  with  the  melted  sun, 

The  weary  mill-girl  lingers 

Beside  the  charmed  stream, 
And  the  sky  and  the  golden  water 

Shape  and  color  her  dream. 

Fair  wave  the  sunset  gardens, 

The  rosy  signals  fly  ; 
Her  homestead  beckons  from  the  cloud, 

And  love  goes  sailing  by  ! 


AMY  WENTWORTH. 

TO  W.    B. 

As  they  who  watch  by  sick-beds  find  relief 
Unwittingly  from  the  great  stress  of  grief 
And  anxious  care  in  fantasies  outwrought 
From    the    hearth's    embers    flickering   low,  or 

caught 

From  whispering  wind,  or  tread  of  passing  feet, 
Or  vagrant  memory  calling  up  some  sweet 
Snatch  of  old  song  or  romance,  whence  or  why 
They  scarcely  know  or  ask, — so,  thou  and  I, 
Nursed  in  the  faith  that  Truth  alone  is  strong 
In  the  endurance  which  outwearies  Wrong, 
With  meek  persistence  baffling  brutal  force, 
And  trusting  God  against  the  universe, — 
We,  doomed  to  watch  a  strife  we  may  not  share 
With  other  weapons  than  the  patriot's  prayer, 
Yet  owning,  with  full  hearts  and  moistened  eyes, 
The  awful  beauty  of  self-sacrifice, 
And  wrung  by  keenest  sympathy  for  all 
Who  give  their  loved  ones  for  the  living  wail 
'  Twixt  law  and  treason, — in  this  evil  day 
May  haply  find,  through  automatic  play 
Of  pen  and  pencil,  solace  to  our  pain, 
And  hearten  others  with  the  strength  we  gain. 
I  know  it  has  been  said  our  times  require 
No  play  of  art,  nor  dalliance  with  the  lyre, 
No  weak  essay  with  Fancy's  chloroform 
To  calm  the  hot,  mad  pulses  of  the  storm, 


200 


AMY  WENTWORTH. 


;  She  looks  across  the  harbor  bar." 


But  the  stern  war-blast  rather,  such  as  sets 
The  battle's  teeth  of  serried  bayonets, 
And  pictures  grim  as  Vernet's.     Yet  with  these 
Some  softer  tints  may  blend,  and  milder  keys 
Relieve    the    storm-stunned  ear.     Let    us    keep 

sweet, 

If  so  we  may,  our  hearts,  even  while  we  eat 
The  bitter  harvest  of  our  own  device 
And  half  a  century's  moral  cowardice. 
As  Nurnberg  sang  while  Wittenberg  defied, 
And  Kranach  painted  by  his  Luther's  side, 
And  through  the  war-march  of  the  Puritan 
The  silver  stream  of  Marvell's  music  ran, 
So  let  the  household  melodies  be  sung, 
The  pleasant  pictures  on  the  wall  be  hung, — 
So  let  us  hold  against  the  hosts  of  night 
And  slavery  all  our  vantage-ground  of  light. 
Let  Treason  boast  its  savagery,  and  shake 
From  its  flag-folds  its  symbol  rattle-snake, 
Nurse  its  fine  arts,  lay  human  skins  in  tan, 
And  carve  its  pipe-bowls  from  the  bones  of  man, 
And  make  the  tale  of  Fijian  banquets  dull 
By  drinking  whiskey  from  a  loyal  skull. — 
But  let  us  guard,  till  this  sad  war  shall  cease, 
(God  grant  it  soon  !)  the  graceful  arts  of  peace 
No  foes  are  conquered  who  the  victors  teach 
Their  vandal  manners  and  barbaric  speech. 

And  while,  with  hearts  of  thankfulness,  we  bear 
Of  the  great  common  burden  our  full  share, 
Let  none  upbraid  us  that  the  waves  entice 
Thy  sea-dipped  pencil,  or  some  quaint  device, 
Rhythmic  and  sweet,  beguiles  my  pen  away 
From  the  sharp  strifes  and  sorrows  of  to-day. 
Thus,  while  the  east-wind  keen  from  Labrador 
Sings  in  the  leafless  elms,  and  from  the  shore 
Of  the  great  sea  comes  the  monotonous  roar 


Of  the  long-breaking  surf,  and  all  the  sky 

Is  gray  with  cloud,  home-bound  and  dull,  I  try 

To  time  a  simple  legend  to  the  sounds 

Of  winds  in  the  woods,  and  waves  on  pebbled 

bounds, — 

A  song  for  oars  to  chime  with,  such  as  might 
Be  sung  by  tired  sea-painters,  who  at  night 
Look  from  their  hemlock  camps,  by  quiet  cove 
Or  beach,  moon-lighted,  on  the  waves  they  love. 
(So  hast  thou  looked,  when  level  sunset  lay 
On  the  calm  bosom  of  some  Eastern  bay, 
And  all  the  spray-moist  rocks  and  waves  that 

rolled 

Up  the  white  sand-slopes  flashed  with  ruddy  gold. ) 
Something  it  has — a  flavor  of  the  sea, 
And  the  sea's  freedom — which  reminds  of  thee. 
Its  faded  picture,  dimly  smiling  down 
From  the  blurred  fresco  of  the  ancient  town, 
I  have  not  touched  with  warmer  tints  in  vain, 
If,  in  this  dark,  sad  year,  it  steals  one  thought 

from  pain. 


HER  fingers  shame  tne  ivory  keys 
They  dance  so  light  along  ; 

The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 
Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 

O  perfumed  suitor,  spare  thy  smiles  ! 

Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee  ; 
She  better  loves  the  salted  wind, 

The  voices  of  the  sea. 

Her  heart  is  like  an  outbound  ship 
That  at  its  anchor  swings  ; 

The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 
Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 


THE  COUXTESS. 


201 


She  sings,  and,  smiling,  hears  her  praise, 

But  dreams  the  while  of  one 
Who  watches  from  his  sea-blown  deck 

The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 

She  questions  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

And  every  fog-wreath  dim, 
And  bids  the  sea-birds  flying  north 

Bear  messages  to  him. 

She  speeds  them  with  the  thanks  of  men 

He  perilled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 


Brown  Viking  of  the  fishing-smack  ! 

Fair  toast  of  all  the  town  ! — 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown  ! 

But  ne'er  shall  Amy  Wentworth  wear 
For  him  the  blush  of  sham.e 

Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 
Against  her  ancient  name. 

The  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring, 
And  blood  is  not  like  wine  ; 

Nor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs 
Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 


Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 
If  love  be  Fortune's  spur  ; 

And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 
Who  lifts  himself  to  her. 


Her  home  is  brave  in  Jaffrey  Street, 
With  stately  stairways  worn 

By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 
And  ladies  gentle-born. 

Still  green  about  its  maple  porch 

The  English  ivy  twines, 
Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 

The  herald's  carven  signs. 

And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot  old, 

Ancestral  faces  frown, — 
And  this  has  worn  the  soldier's  sword, 

And  that  the  judge's  gown. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as  they, 

She  walks  the  gallery  floor 
As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 

By  stormy  Labrador  ! 

The  sweetbrier  blooms  on  Kittery-side, 
And  green  are  Elliot's  bowers  ; 

Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 
The  mosses  are  her  flowers. 

She  looks  across  the  harbor-bar 

To  see  the  white  gulls  fly ; 
His  greeting  from  the  Northern  sea 

Is  in  their  clanging  cry. 

She  hums  a  song,  and  dreams  that  he, 

As  in  its  romance  old, 
Shall  homeward  ride  with  silken  sails 

And  masts  of  beaten  gold  ! 

O,  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 

And  high  and  low  mate  ill ; 
But  love  has  never  known  a  law 

Beyond  its  own  sweet  will ! 


THE   COUNTESS. 


I  KNOW  not,  Time  and  Space  so  intervene, 
Whether,  still  waiting  with  a  trust  serene, 
Thou  bearest  up  thy  fourscore  years  and  ten, 
Or,  called  at  last,  art  now  Heaven's  citizen  ; 
But,  here  or  there,  a  pleasant  thought  of  thee, 
Like  an  old  friend,  all  day  has  been  with  me. 
The  shy,  still  boy,  for  whom  thy  kindly  hand 
Smoothed  his  hard  pathway  to  the  wonder-land 
Of  thought  and  fancy,  in  gray  manhood  yet 
Keeps  green  the  memory  of  his  early  debt. 
To-day,  when  truth   and  falsehood  speak  their 

words 
j  Through  hot-lipped  cannon    and  the    teeth  of 

swords, 

Listening  with  quickened  heart  and  ear  intent 
TQ  each  sharp  clause  of  that  stern  argument, 
I  still  can  hear  at  times  a  softer  note 
Of  the  old  pastoral  music  round  me  float, 
W^hile  through  the  hot  gleam  of  our  civil  strife 
Looms  the  green  mirage  of  a  simpler  life. 
As,  at  his  alien  post,  the  sentinel 
Drops  the  old  bucket  in  the  homestead  well, 
And  hears  old  voices  in  the  winds  that  toss 
Above  his  head  the  live-oak's  beard  of  moss, 
So,  in  our  trial  time,  and  under  skies 
Shadowed  by  swords  like  Islam's  paradise, 
I  wait  and  watch,  and  let  my  fancy  stray 
To  milder  scenes  and  youth's  Arcadian  day  ; 
And  howsoe'er  the  pencil  dipped  in  dreams 
Shades    the  brown  woods   or  tints  the  sunset 

streams, 

The  country  doctor  in  the  foreground  seems, 
Whose  ancient  sulky  down  the  village  lanes 
Dragged,  like  a  war-car,  captive  ills  and  pains. 
I  could  not  paint  the  scenery  of  my  song, 
Mindless  of  one  who  looked  thereon  so  long, 
Who,  night  and  day,  on  duty's  lonely  round, 
Made  friends  o'  the  woods  and  rocks,  and  knew 

the  sound 

Of  each  small  brook,  and  what  the  hillside  trees 
Said  to  the  winds  that  touched  their  leafy  keys  ; 
Who  saw  so  keenly  and  so  well  could  paint 
The  village-folk,  with  all  their  humors  quaint, — 
The  parson  ambling  on  his  wall-eyed  roan, 
Grave  and  erect,  with  white  hair  backward  blown ; 
The  tough  old  boatman,  half  amphibious  grown ; 
The  muttering  witch-wife  of  the  gossip's  tale, 
And  the  loud  straggler  levying  his  blackmail, — 
Old  customs,  habits,  superstitions,  fears, 
All  that  lies  buried  under  fifty  years. 
To  thee,  as  is  most  fit,  I  bring  my  lay, 
And,  grateful,  own  the  debt  I  cannot  pay. 


Over  the  wooded  northern  ridge, 

Between  its  houses  brown, 
To  the  dark  tunnel  of  the  bridge 

The  street  comes  straggling  down. 

You  catch  a  glimpse,  through  birch  and  pine, 

Of  gable,  roof,  and  porch, 
The  tavern  with  its  swinging  sign, 

The  sharp  horn  of  the  church. 

The  river's  steel-blue  crescent  curves 

To  meet,  in  ebb  and  flow, 
The  single  broken  wharf  that  serves 

For  sloop  and  gundelow. 

With  salt  sea-scents  along  its  shores 

The  heavy  hay-boats  crawl, 
The  long  antennae  of  their  oars 

In  lazy  rise  and  fall. 


302 


THE  COUNTESS. 


Along  the  gray  abutment's  wall 

The  idle  shad-net  dries  ; 
The  toll-man,  in  his  cobbler's  stall 

Sits  smoking  with  closed  eyes. 

You  hear  the  pier's  low  undertone 
Of  waves  that  chafe  and  gnaw  ; 

You  start, — a  skipper's  horn  is  blown 
To  raise  the  creaking  draw. 

At  times  a  blacksmith's  anvil  sounds 

With  slow  and  sluggard  beat, 
Or  stage  -coach  on  its  dusty  rounds 

Wakes  up  the  staring  street. 

A  place  for  idle  eyes  and  ears, 
A  cobwebbed  nook  of  dreams  ; 

Left  by  the  stream  whose  waves  are  years 
The  stranded  village  seems. 

And  there,  like  other  moss  and  rust, 

The  native  dweller  clings, 
And  keeps,  in  uninquiring  trust, 

The  old,  dull  round  of  things. 

The  fisher  drops  his  patient  lines, 

The  farmer  sows  his  grain, 
Content  to  hear  the  murmuring  pines 

Instead  of  railroad-train. 

Go  where,  along  the  tangled  steep 

That  slopes  against  the  west, 
The  hamlet's  buried  idlers  sleep 

In  still  prof ounder  rest. 

Throw  back  the  locust's  flowery  plume, 

The  birch's  pa'e-green  scarf, 
And  break  the  web  of  brier  and  bloom 

From  name  and  epitaph. 

A  simple  muster-roll  of  death, 

Of  pomp  and  romance  shorn, 
The  dry,  old  names  that  common  breath 

Has  cheapened  and  outworn. 

Yet  pause  by  one  low  mound,  and  part 

The  wild  vines  o'er  it  laced, 
And  read  the  words  by  rustic  art 

Upon  its  headstone  traced. 

Haply  yon  white-haired  villager 

Of  fourscore  years  can  say 
What  means  the  noble  name  of  her 

Who  sleeps  with  common  clay. 

An  exile  from  the  Gascon  land 

Found  refuge  here  and  rest, 
And  loved,  of  all  the  village  band, 

Its  fairest  and  its  best. 

He  knelt  with  her  on  Sabbath  morns, 
He  worshipped  through  her  eyes, 

And  on  the  pride  that  doubts  and  scorns 
Stole  in  her  faith's  surprise. 

Her  simple  daily  life  he  saw 

By  homeliest  duties  tried, 
In  all  things  by  an  untaught  law 

Of  fitness  justified. 


For  her  his  rank  aside  he  laid ; 

He  took  the  hue  and  tone 
Of  lowly  life  and  toil,  and  made 

Her  simple  ways  his  own. 

Yet  still,  in  gay  and  careless  ease, 

To  harvest-field  or  dance 
He  brought  the  gentle  courtesies, 

The  nameless  grace  of  France. 

And  she  who  taught  him  love  not  less 

From  him  she  loved  in  turn 
Caught  in  her  sweet  unconsciousness 

What  love  is  quick  to  learn. 

Each  grew  to  each  in  pleased  accord, 

Nor  knew  the  gazing  town 
If  she  looked  upward  to  her  lord 

Or  he  to  her  looked  down. 

How  sweet,  when  summer's  day  was  o'er, 

His  violin's  mirth  and  wail, 
The  walk  on  pleasant  Newbury's  shore, 

The  river's  moonlit  sail ! 

Ah  !  life  is  brief,  though  love  be  long ; 

The  altar  and  the  bier, 
The  burial  hymn  and  bridal  song, 

Were  both  in  one  short  year  ! 

Her  rest  is  quiet  on  the  hill, 

Beneath  the  locust's  bloom  : 
Far  off  her  lover  sleeps  as  still 

Within  his  scutcheoned  tomb. 

The  Gascon  lord,  the  village  maid, 
In  death  still  clasp  their  hands ; 

The  love  that  levels  rank  and  grade 
Unites  their  severed  lands. 

What  matter  whose  the  hillside  grave, 
Or  whose  the  blazoned  stone  ? 

Forever  to  her  western  wave 
Shall  whisper  blue  Garonne  ! 

O  Love  ! — so  hallowing  every  soil 
That  gives  thy  sweet  flower  room, 

Wherever,  nursed  by  ease  or  toil, 
The  human  heart  takes  bloom  ! — 

Plant  of  lost  Eden,  from  the  sod 

Of  sinful  earth  unriven, 
White  blossom  of  the  trees  of  God 

Dropped  down  to  us  from  heaven  ! — 

This  tangled  waste  of  mound  and  stone 

Is  holy  for  thy  sake  ; 
A  sweetness  which  is  all  thy  own 

Breathes  out  from  fern  and  brake. 

And  while  ancestral  pride  shall  twine 
The  Gascon's  tomb  with  flowers, 

Fall  sweetly  here,  O  song  of  mine, 
With  summer's  bloom  and  showers  ! 

And  let  the  lines  that  severed  seem 

Unite  again  in  thee, 
As  western  wave  and  Gallic  stream 

Are  mingled  in  one  sea  ! 


NAPLES.— THE  SUMMONS.— THE  WATTING. 


203 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS- 


NAPLES. 

1800. 

INSCRIBED  TO  ROBERT   C.  WATERSTON,    OF 
BOSTON. 

I  GIVE  thee  joy ! — I  know  to  thee 
The  dearest  spot  on  earth  must  be 
Where  sleeps  thy  loved  one  by  the  summer  sea ; 

Where,  near  her  sweetest  poet's  tomb, 
The  land  of  Virgil  gave  thee  room 
To  lay  thy  flower  with  hsr  perpetual  bloom. 

I  know  that  when  the  sky  shut  down 
Behind  thee  on  the  gleaming  town, 
On  Baiae's  baths  and  Posilippo's  crown ; 

And,  through  thy  tears,  the  mocking  day 
Burned  Ischia's  mountain  lines  away, 
And  Capri  melted  in  its  sunny  bay, — 

Through  thy  great  farewell  sorrow  shot 
The  sharp  pang  of  a  bitter  thought 
That  slaves  must  tread  around  that  holy  spot. 

Thou  knewest  not  the  land  was  blest 
In  giving  thy  beloved  rest, 
Holding  the  fond  hope  closer  to  her  breast ; 

That  every  sweet  and  saintly  grave 

Was  freedom's  prophecy,  and  gave 

The  pledge  of  Heaven  to  sanctify  and  save. 

That  pledge  is  answered.     To  thy  ear 
The  unchained  city  sends  its  cheer, 
And,  tuned  to  joy,  the  muffled  bells  of  fear 

Ring  Victor  in.     The  land  sits  free 
And  happy  by  the  summer  sea, 
And  Bourbon  Naples  now  is  Italy  ! 

Sha  smiles  above  her  broken  chain 
The  languid  smile  that  follows  pain, 
Stretching  her  cramped  limbs  to  the  sun  again. 

O,  joy  for  all,  who  hear  her  call 
From  gray  Camaldoli's  convent-wall 
And  Elmo's  towers  to  freedom's  carnival ! 

A  new  life  breathes  among  her  vines 
And  olives,  like  tha  breath  of  pines 
Blown  downward  from  the  breezy  Apennines. 

Lean,  O,  my  friend,  to  meet  that  breath, 
Rejoice  as  one  who  witnesseth 
Beauty  from  ashes  rise,  and  life  from  death  ! 

Thy  sorrow  shall  no  more  be  pain, 
Its  tears  shall  fall  in  sunlit  rain, 
Writing  the  grave  with  flowers  :  u  Arisen  again  !  " 


THE  SUMMONS. 

MY  ear  is  full  of  summer  sounds, 
Of  summer  sights  my  languid  eye  ; 

Beyond  the  dusty  village  bounds 

I  loiter  in  my  daily  rounds, 

And  in  the  noon-time  shadows  lie. 


I  hear  the  wild  bee  wind  his  horn, 

The  bird  swings  on  the  ripened  wheat, 
The  long  green  lances  of  the  corn 
Are  tilting  in  the  winds  of  morn. 
The  locust  shrills  his  song  of  heat. 

Another  sound  my  spirit  hears, 

A  deeper  sound  that  drowns  them  all, — 
A  voice  of  pleading  choked  with  tears, 
The  call  of  human  hopes  and  fears, 

The  Macedonian  cry  to  Paul 

The  storm-bell  rings,  the  trumpet  blows  ; 

I  know  the  word  and  countersign  ; 
Wherever  Freedom's  vanguard  goes, 
Where  stand  or  fall  her  friends  or  foes, 

I  know  the  place  that  should  be  mine. 

Shamed  be  the  ha*ids  that  idly  fold, 

And  lips  Cii«,u  woo  the  reed's  accord, 
When  laggard  Time  the  hour  has  tolled 
For  true  with  f«.W  and  new  with  old 
To  fight  tad  u«,«tujs  of  the  Lord  ! 

O  brothers  !  blest  by  partial  Fate 

With  power  to  match  the-  will  and  deed, 
To  him  your  summons  comes  too  late 
Who  sinks  beneath  his  armor's  weight, 
And  has  no  answer  but  God-speed  ! 


THE  WAITING. 

I  WAIT  and  watch  :  before  my  eyes 

Methinks  the  night  grows  thin  and  gray 

I  wait  and  watch  the  eastern  skies 

To  see  the  golden  spears  uprise 
Beneath  the  oriflamme  of  day  ! 

Like  one  whose  limbs  are  bound  in  trance 

I  hear  the  day-sounds  swell  and  grow, 
And  see  across  the  twilight  glance, 
Troop  after  troop,  in  swift  advance, 
The  shining  ones  with  plumes  of  snow  ! 

I  know  the  errand  of  their  feet, 

I  know  what  mighty  work  is  theirs ; 
I  can  but  lift  up  hands  unmeet, 
The  threshing-floors  of  God  to  beat, 
And  speed  them  with  unworthy  prayers. 

I  will  not  dream  in  vain  despair 

The  steps  of  progress  wait  for  me  : 
The  puny  leverage  of  a  hair 
The  planet's  impulse  well  may  spare, 
A  drop  of  dew  the  tided  sea. 

The  loss,  if  loss  there  be,  is  mine, 

And  yet  not  mine  if  understood  ; 
For  one  shall  grasp  and  one  resign, 
One  drink  life's  rue,  and  one  its  wine, 
And  God  shall  make  the  balance  good. 

O  power  to  do  !  O  baffled  will ! 

O  prayer  and  action  !  ye  are  one. 
Who  may  not  strive,  may  yet  fulfil 
The  harder  task  of  standing  still, 

And  good  but  wished  with  God  is  done  ! 


204 


MOUNTAIN  PICTURES.— OUR  RIVER. 


MOUNTAIN  PICTURES. 
I. 

FRANCONIA  FROM  THE  PEMIGEWASSET. 

ONCE  more,  O  Mountains  of  the  North,  unveil 
Your  brows,  and  lay  your  cloudy  mantles  by ! 

And  once  more,  ere  the  eyes  that  seek  ye  fail, 
Uplift  against  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky 

Your  mighty  shapes,  and  let  the  sunshine  weave 
Its  golden  net-work  in  your  belting  woods, 
Smile   down  in    rainbows    from    your  falling 
floods, 

And  on  your  kingly  brows  at  morn  and  eve 
Set  crowns  of  fire  !    So  shall  my  soul  receive 

Haply  the  secret  of  your  calm  and  strength, 
Your  unforgotten  beauty  interfuse 
My  common  life,  your  glorious  shapes  and  hues 
And   sun-dropped    splendors    at    my  bidding 

come, 

Loom   vast  through   dreams,    and   stretch   in 
billowy  length 

From  the  sea-level  of  my  lowland  home  ! 

They  rise  before  me  !  Last  night's  thunder-gust 
Roared  not  in  vain  :  for  where  its  lightnings  thrust 
Their  tongues  of  fire,  the  great  peaks  seem  so 

near, 

Burned  clean  of  mist,  so  starkly  bold  and  clear, 
I  almost  pause  the  wind  in  the  pines  to  hear, 
The  loose  rock's  fall,  the  steps  of  browsing  deer. 
The  clouds  that  shattered  on  yon  slide-worn  walls 

And  splintered   on   the    rocks  their  spears  of 

rain 

Have  set  in  play  a  thousand  waterfalls, 
Making  the  dust  and  silence  of  the  woods 
Glad  with  the  laughter  of  the  chasing  floods, 
And    luminous   with   blown    spray   and    silver 

gleams, 
While,  in  the  vales  below,  the  dry-lipped  streams 

Sing  to  the  freshened  meadow-lands  again. 
So,  let  me  hope,  the  battle-storm  that  beats 

The  land  with  hail  and  fire  may  pass  away 

With  its  spent  thunders  at  the  break  of  day, 
Like  last  night's  clouds,  and  leave,  as  it  retreats, 

A  greener  earth  and  fairer  sky  behind, 
Blown  crystal-clear  by  Freedom's  Northern  wind ! 


MONADNOCK  FROM  WACHUSET. 

I  WOULD  I  were  a  painter,  for  the  sake 
Of  a  sweet  picture,  and  of  her  who  led, 
A  fitting  guide,  with  reverential  tread. 
Into  that  mountain  mystery.     First  a  lake 
Tinted  with  sunset ;  next  the  wavy  lines 

Of  far  receding  hills  ;  and  yet  more  far, 
Monadnock  lifting  from  his  night  of  pines 

His  rosy  forehead  to  the  evening  star. 
Beside  us,  purple-zoned,  Wachuset  laid 
His  head  against  the  West,  whose  warm  light 

made 

His  aureole  ;  and  o'er  him,  sharp  and  clear, 
Like    a    shaft  of    lightning    in    mid-launching 

stayed. 

A  single  level  cloud-line,  shone  upon 
By  the  fierce  glances  of  the  sunken  sun, 
Menaced  the  darkness  with  its  golden  spear  ! 

So  twilight  d  jepened  round  us.     Still  and  black 
The  great  woods  climbed  the  mountain  at  our 

back  ; 

And  on  their  skirts,  where  yet  the  lingering  day 
On  the  shorn  greenness  of  the  clearing  lay, 

The  brown  old  farm-house  like  a  bird's-nest 

hung. 


With  home-life  sounds  the  desert  air  was  stirred  : 
The  bleat  of  sheep  along  the  hill  we  heard, 
The  bucket  plashing  in  the  cool,  sweet  well, 
The  pasture -bars  that  clattered  as  they  fell ; 
Dogs  barked,  fowls  fluttered,  cattle  lowed ;  the 

gate 
Of  the   barn-yard  creaked  beneath  the    merry 

weight 
Of  sun-brown  children,  listening,  while  they 

swung, 

The  welcome  sound  of  supper-call  to  hear  ; 
And   down  the   shadowy   lane,    in  tinklings 

clear, 

The  pastoral  curfew  of  the  cow-bell  rung. 
Thus  soothed  and  pleased,  our  backward  path  we 

took, 

Praising  the  farmer's  home.     He  only  spake, 
Looking  into  the  sunset  o'er  the  lake, 

Like  one  to  whom  the  far-off  is  most  near 
u  Yes,  most  folks  think  it  has  a  pleasant  look  ; 
I  love  it  for  my  good  old  mother's  sake, 

Who  lived  and  died  here  in  the  peace  of 

God  !  " 

The  lesson  of  his  words  we  pondered  o'er, 
As  silently  we  turned  the  eastern  flank 
Of  the  mountain,  where  its  shadow  deepest  sank, 
Doubling  the  night  along  our  rugged  road  : 
We  felt  that  man  was  more  than  his  abode, — 

The  inward  life  than  Nature's  raiment  more  ; 
And  the  warm  sky,  the  sundown-tinted  hill, 
The  forest  and  the  lake,  seemed  dwarfed  and 

dim 

Before  the  saintly  soul,  whose  human  will 
Meekly  in  the  Eternal  footsteps  trod, 
Making  her  homely  toil  and  household  ways 
An  earthly  echo  of  the  song  of  praise 
Swelling  from  angel  lips  and  harps  of  seraphim. 


OUR  RIVER. 

FOR    A    SUMMER  FESTIVAL  AT    "THE  LAURELS  " 
ON   THE   MERRIMACK. 

ONCE  more  on  yonder  laurelled  height 

The  summer  flowers  have  budded  : 
Once  more  with  summer's  golden  light 

The  vales  of  home  are  flooded  ; 
And  once  more,  by  the  grace  of  Him 

Of  every  good  the  Giver, 
We  sing  upon  its  wooded  rim 

The  praises  of  our  river  : 

Its  pines  above,  its  waves  below, 

The  west-wind  down  it  blowing, 
As  fair  as  when  the  young  Brissot 

Beheld  it  seaward  flowing, — 
And  bore  its  memory  o'er  the  deep, 

To  soothe  a  martyr's  sadness, 
And  fresco,  in  his  troubled  sleep, 

His  prison-walls  with  gladness. 

We  know  the  world  is  rich  with  streams 

Renowned  in  song  and  story, 
Whose  music  murmurs  through  our  dreams 

Of  human  love  and  glory  : 
We  know  that  Arno's  banks  are  fair, 

And  Rhine  has  castled  shadows, 
And,  poet-tuned,  the  Doon  and  Ayr 

Go  singing  down  the  meadows. 

But  while,  unpictured  and  unsung 

By  painter  or  by  poet, 
Our  river  waits  the  tuneful  tongue 

And  cunning  hand  to  show  it, — 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER. 


205 


We  only  know  the  fond  skies  lean 

Above  it,  warm  with  blessing, 
And  the  sweet  soul  of  our  Undine 

Awakes  to  our  caressing. 

No  fickle  sun-god  holds  the  flocks 

That  graze  its  shores  in  keeping  ; 
No  icy  kiss  of  Dian  mocks 

The  youth  beside  it  sleeping  : 
Our  Christian  river  loveth  most 

The  beautiful  and  human  ; 
The  heathen  streams  of  Naiads  boast, 

But  ours  of  man  and  woman. 

The  miner  in  his  cabin  hears 

The  ripple  we  are  hearing  ; 
It  whispers  soft  to  homesick  ears 

Around  the  settler's  clearing  : 
In  Sacramento's  vales  of  corn, 

Or  Santee's  bloom  of  cotton, 
Our  river  by  its  valley -born 

Was  never  yet  forgotten. 

The  drum  rolls  loud,— the  bugle  fills 

The  summer  air  with  clangor  ; 
The  war-storm  shakes  the  solid  hills 

Beneath  its  tread  of  anger  ; 
Young  eyes  that  last  year  smiled  in  ours 

Now  point  the  rifle's  barrel, 
And  hands  then  stained  with  fruits  and  flowers 

Bear  redder  stains  of  quarrel. 

But  blue  skies  smile,  and  flowers  bloom  on, 

And  rivers  still  keep  flowing, — 
The  dear  God  still  his  rain  and  sun 

On  good  and  ill  bestowing. 
His  pine-trees  whisper,  "  Trust  and  wait !  " 

His  flowers  are  prophesying 
That  all  we  dread  of  change  or  fall 

His  love  is  underlying. 

And  thou,  O  Mountain-born  ! — no  more 

We  ask  the  wise  Allotter 
Than  for  the  firmness  of  thy  shore, 

The  calmness  of  thy  water, 
The  cheerful  lights  that  overlay 

Thy  rugged  slopes  with  beauty, 
To  match  our  spirits  to  our  day 

And  make  a  joy  of  duty. 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER. 

ANDREW  RYKMAN  's  dead  and  gone ; 

You  can  see  his  leaning  slate 
In  the  graveyard,  and  thereon 

Read  his  name  and  date. 

"  Trust  is  truer  than  our  fears,'" 
Runs  the  legend  through  the  moss, 

"  Gain  is  not  in  added  years, 
Nor  in  death  is  loss. " 

Still  the  feet  that  thither  trod, 
All  the  friendly  eyes  are  dim  ; 

Only  Nature,  now,  and  God 
Have  a  care  for  him. 

There  the  dews  of  quiet  fall, 

Singing  birds  and  soft  winds  stray  ; 

Shall  the  tender  Heart  of  all 
Be  less  kind  than  they  ? 

What  he  was  and  what  he  is 
They  who  ask  may  haply  find, 


If  they  read  this  prayer  of  his 
Which  he  left  behind. 


Pardon,  Lord,  the  lips  that  dare 
Shape  in  words  a  mortal's  prayer  ! 
Prayer,  that,  when  my  day  is  done, 
And  I  see  its  setting  sun, 
Shorn  and  beamless,  cold  and  dim, 
Sink  beneath  the  horizon's  rim, — 
When  this  ball  of  rock  and  clay 
Crumbles  from  my  feet  away, 
And  the  solid  shores  of  sense 
Melt  into  the  vague  immense, 
Father  !  I  may  come  to  Thee 
Even  with  the  beggar's  plea, 
As  the  poorest  of  Thy  poor, 
With  my  needs,  and  nothing  more. 

Not  as  one  who  seeks  his  home 

With  a  step  assured  I  come ; 

Still  behind  the  tread  I  hear 

Of  my  life-companion,  Fear  ; 

Still  a  shadow  deep  and  vast 

From  my  westering  feet  is  cast, 

Wavering,  doubtful,  undefined, 

Never  shapen  or  outlined  : 

From  myself  the  fear  has  grown, 

And  the  shadow  is  my  own. 

Yet,  O  Lord,  through  all  a  sense 

Of  Thy  tender  providence 

Stays  my  failing  heart  on  Thee, 

And  confirms  the  feeble  knee ; 

And,  at  times,  my  worn  feet  press 

Spaces  of  cool  quietness, 

Lilied  whiteness  shone  upon 

Not  by  light  of  moon  or  sun. 

Hours  there  be  of  inmost  calm, 

Broken  but  by  grateful  psalm, 

When  I  love  Thee  more  than  fear  Thee, 

And  Thy  blessed  Christ  seems  near  me, 

With  forgiving  look,  as  when 

He  beheld  the  Magdalen. 

Well  I  know  that  all  things  move 

To  the  spheral  rhythm  of  love, — 

That  to  Thee,  O  Lord  of  all ! 

Nothing  can  of  chance  befall : 

Child  and  seraph,  mote  and  star, 

Well  Thou  knowest  what  we  are ; 

Through  Thy  vast  creative  plan 

Lookir  g,  from  the  worm  to  man, 

There  is  pity  in  Thine  eyes, 

But  no  hatred  nor  surprise. 

Not  in  blind  caprice  of  will, 

Not  in  cunning  sleight  of  skill, 

Not  for  show  of  power,  was  wrought 

Nature's  marvel  in  Thy  thought. 

Never  careless  hand  and  vain 

Smites  these  chords  of  joy  and  pain ; 

No  immortal  selfishness 

Plays  the  game  of  curse  and  bless : 

Heaven  and  earth  are  witnesses 

That  Thy  glory  goodness  is. 

Not  for  sport  of  mind  and  force 

Hast  Thou  made  Thy  universe, 

But  as  atmosphere  and  zone 

Of  Thy  loving  heart  alone. 

Man,  who  walketh  in  a  show, 

Sees  before  him,  to  and  fro, 

Shadow  and  illusion  go  ; 

All  things  flow  and  fluctuate, 

Now  contract  and  now  dilate. 

In  the  welter  of  this  ?ea, 

Nothing  stable  is  but  Thee  ; 

In  this  whirl  of  swooning  trance, 

Thou  alone  art  permanence ; 

All  without  Thee  only  seems, 

All  beside  is  choice  of  dreams. 

Never  yet  in  darkest  mood 

Doubted  I  that  Thou  wast  good, 


206 


THE  CRY  OF  A  LOST  SOUL. 


Nor  mistook  my  will  for  fate, 

Pain  of  sin  for  heavenly  hate, — 

Never  dreamed  the  gates  of  pearl 

Rise  from  out  the  burning  marl, 

Or  that  good  can  only  live 

Of  the  bad  conservative, 

And  through  counterpoise  of  hell 

Heaven  alone  be  possible. 

For  myself  alone  I  doubt ; 

All  is  well,  I  know,  without ; 

I  alone  the  beauty  mar, 

I  alone  the  music  jar. 

Yet,  with  hands  by  evil  stained, 

And  an  ear  by  discord  pained, 

I  am  groping  for  the  keys 

Of  the  heavenly  harmonies  ; 

Still  within  my  heart  I  bear 

Love  for  all  things  good  and  fair. 

Hands  of  want  or  souls  in  pain 

Have  not  sought  my  door  in  vain  ; 

I  have  kept  my  fealty  good 

To  the  human  brotherhood  ; 

Scarcely  have  I  asked  in  prayer 

That  which  others  might  not  share. 

I,  who  hear  with  secret  shame 

Praise  that  paineth  more  than  blame, 

Rich  alone  in  favors  lent, 

Virtuous  by  accident, 

Doubtful  where  I  fain  would  rest, 

Frailest  where  I  seem  the  best, 

Only  strong  for  lack  of  test, — 

What  am  I,  that  I  should  press 

Special  pleas  of  selfishness, 

Coolly  mounting  into  heaven 

On  my  neighbor  unf  orgiven  ? 

Ne'er  to  me,  howe'er  disguised, 

Comes  a  saint  unrecognized  ; 

Never  fails  my  heart  to  greet 

Nobb  de3d  with  warmer  beat ; 

Halt  and  maimed,  I  own  not  less 

All  the  grace  of  holiness  ; 

Nor,  through  shame  or  self -distrust, 

Less  I  love  the  pure  and  just. 

Lord,  forgive  these  words  of  mine  : 

What  have  I  that  is  not  Thine  ?— 

Whatsoe'er  I  fain  would  boast 

Needs  Thy  pitying  pardon  most. 

Thou,  O  Elder  Brother  !  who 

In  Thy  flesh  our  trial  knew, 

Thou,  who  hast  been  touched  by  these 

Our  most  sad  infirmities, 

Thou  alone  the  gulf  canst  span 

In  the  dual  heart  of  man, 

And  between  the  soul  and  sense 

Reconcile  all  difference, 

Change  the  dream  of  me  and  mine 

For  the  truth  of  Thee  and  Thine, 

And,  through  chaos,  doubt,  and  strife, 

Interfuse  Thy  calm  of  life. 

Haply,  thus  by  Thee  renewed, 

In  Thy  borrowed  goodness  good, 

Some  sweet  morning  yet  in  God's 

Dim,  agonian  periods, 

Joyful  I  shall  wake  to  see 

Those  I  love  who  rest  in  Thee, 

And  to  them  in  Thee  allied 

Shall  my  soul  bq  satisfied. 

Scarcely  Hope  hath  shaped  for  me 
What  the  future  life  may  be. 
Other  lips  may  well  be  bold ; 
Like  the  publican  of  old, 
I  can  only  urge  the  plea, 
u  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me  !  " 
Nothing  of  desert  I  claim, 
Unto  me  belongeth  shame. 
Not  for  me  the  crowns  of  gold, 
Palms,  and  harpings  manifold  ; 
Not  for  erring  eye  and  feet 
Jasper  wall  and  golden  street. 


What  thpu  wilt,  O  Father,  give  ! 
All  is  gain  that  I  receive. 
If  my  voice  I  may  not  raise 
In  the  elders'  song  of  praise, 
If  I  may  not,  sin-defiled, 
Claim  my  birthright  as  a  child, 
Suffer  it  that  I  to  Thee 
As  an  hired  servant  be  ; 
Let  the  lowliest  task  be  mine, 
Grateful,  so  the  work  be  Thine ; 
Let  me  find  the  humblest  place 
In  the  shadow  of  Thy  grace 
Blest  to  me  were  any  spot 
Where  temptation  whispers  not. 
If  there  be  some  weaker  one, 
Give  me  strength  to  help  him  on  ; 
If  a  blinder  soul  there  be, 
Let  me  guide  him  nearer  Thee. 
Make  my  mortal  dreams  come  true 
With  the  work  I  fain  would  do  ; 
Clothe  with  life  the  weak  intent, 
Let  me  be  the  thing  I  meant ; 
Let  me  find  in  Thy  employ 
Peace  that  dearer  is  than  joy 
Out  of  self  to  love  be  led 
And  to  heaven  acclimated, 
Until  all  things  sweet  and  good 
Seem  my  natural  habitude. 


So  we  read  the  prayer  of  him 
Who,  with  John  of  Labadie, 

Trod,  of  old,  the  oozy  rim 
Of  the  Zuyder  Zee. 

Thus  did  Andrew  Rykman  pray. 

Are  we  better,  wiser  grown, 
That  we  may  not,  in  our  day, 

Make  his  prayer  our  own  V 


THE  CRY  OF  A  LOST  SOUL.7* 

IN  that  black  forest,  where,  when  day  is  done, 
With  a  snake's  stillness  glides  the  Amazon 
Darkly  from  sunset  to  the  rising  sun, 

A  cry,  as  of  the  pained  heart  of  the  wood, 
The  long,  despairing  moan  of  solitude 
And  darkness  and  the  absence  of  all  good, 

Startles  the  traveller,  with  a  sound  so  drear, 

So  full  of  hopeless  agony  and  fear, 

His  heart  stands  still  and  listens  like  his  ear. 

The  guide,  as  if  he  heard  a  dead-bell  toll, 
Starts,  drops  his  oar  against  the  gunwale's  thole, 
Crosses  himself,  and  whispers,  "A  lost  soul !  " 

uNo,  Senor,  not  a  bird.    I  Imow  it  well, — 
It  is  the  pained  soul  of  some  infidel 
Or  curs6d  heretic  that  cries  from  hell. 

"  Poor  fool  !  with  hope  still  mocking  his  despair, 
He  wanders,  shrieking  on  the  midnight  air 
For  human  pity  and  for  Christian  prayer. 

"Saints    strike  him  dumb  !     Our  Holy   Mother 

hath 

No  prayer  for  him  who,  sinning  unto  death, 
Burns  always  in  the  furnace  of  God's  wrath  !  " 

Thus  to  the  baptized  pagan's  cruel  lie, 
Lending  new  horror  to  that  mournful  cry, 
The  voyager  listens,  making  no  reply. 


ITALY.— THE  RIVER  PATH.— A  MEMORIAL. 


207 


Dim    burns     the    boat-lamp :    shadows    deepen 

round, 

From  giant  trees  with  snake-like  creepers  wound, 
And  the  black  water  glides  without  a  sound. 

But  in  the  traveller's  heart  a  secret  sense 
Of  nature  plastic  to  benign  intents, 
And  an  eternal  good  in  Providence, 

Lifts  to  the  starry  calm  of  heaven  his  eyes  ; 
And  lo  !  rebuking  all  earth's  ominous  cries, 
The  Cross  of  pardon  lights  the  tropic  skies  ! 

41  Father  of  all !  "  he  urges  his  strong  plea, 
"  Thou  lovest  all:  thy  erring  child  may  be 
Lost  to  himself,  but  never  lost  to  Thee  ! 

"  All  souls  are  Thine  ;  the  wings  of  morning  bear 
None  from  that  Presence  which  is  everywhere, 
Nor  hell  itself  can  hide,  for  Thou  art  there. 

' '  Through  sins  of  sense,  perversities  of  will, 
Through  doubt  and  pain,  through  guilt  and 

shame  and  ill. 
Thy  pitying  eye  is  on  Thy  creature  still. 

"  Wilt  thou  not  make,  Eternal  Source  and  Goal ! 
In  thy  long  years,  life's  broken  circle  whole, 
And  change  to  praise  the  cry  of  a  lost  soul  ?  " 


ITALY. 

ACROSS  the  sea  I  heard  the  groans 

Of  nations  in  the  intervals 
Of  wind  and  wave.     Their  blood  and  bones 
Cried  out  in  torture,  crushed  by  thrones, 

And  sucked  by  priestly  cannibals. 

I  dreamed  of  Freedom  slowly  gained 

By  martyr  meekness,  patience,  faith, 
And  lo  !  an  athlete  gdmly  stained, 
With  corded  muscles  battle-strained, 
Shouting  it  from  the  fields  of  death  ! 

I  turn  me,  awe-struck,  from  the  sight, 
Among  the  clamoring  thousands  mute, 

I  only  know  that  God  is  right, 

And  that  the  children  of  the  light 
Shall  tread  the  darkness  under  foot. 

I  know  the  pent  fire  heaves  its  crust, 
That  sultry  skies  the  bolt  will  form 

To  smite  them  clear  ;  that  Nature  must 

The  balance  of  her  powers  adjust, 

Though  with  the  earthquake  and  the  storm. 

God  raigns,  and  let  the  earth  rejoice  ! 

I  bow  before  His  sterner  plan. 
Dumb  are  the  organs  of  my  choice ; 
He  speaks  in  battle's  stormy  voice, 

His  praise  is  in  the  wrath  of  man  ! 

Yet,  surely  as  He  lives,  the  day 

Of  peace  He  promised  shall  be  ours, 

To  fold  the  flags  of  war,  and  lay 

Its  sword  and  spear  to  rust  away, 

And  sow  its  ghastly  fields  with  flowers  ! 


No  rustle  from  the  birchen  stem, 
No  ripple  from  the  water's  hem. 

The  dusk  of  twilight  round  us  grew, 
We  felt  the  falling  of  the  dew  ; 

For,  from  us,  ere  the  day  was  done, 
The  wooded  hills  shut  out  the  sun. 

But  on  the  river's  farther  side 
We  saw  the  hill-tops  glorified, — 

A  tender  glow,  exceeding  fair, 
A  dream  of  day  without  its  glare. 

With  us  the  damp,  the  chill,  the  gloom  : 
With  them  the  sunset's  rosy  bloom ; 

I  While  dark,  through  willowy  vistas  seen, 
The  river  rolled  in  shade  between. 

From  out  the  darkness  where  we  trod, 
We  gazed  upon  those  hills  of  God, 

Whose  light  seemed  not  of  moon  or  sun. 
We  spake  not,  but  our  thought  was  one. 

We  paused,  as  if  from  that  bright  shore 
Beckoned  our  dear  ones  gone  before  ; 

And  stilled  our  beating  hearts  to  hear 
The  voices  lost  to  mortal  ear  ! 

Sudden  our  pathway  turned  from  night ; 
The  hills  swung  open  to  the  light ; 

Through  their  green  gates  the  sunshine  showed, 
A  long,  slant  splendor  downward  flowed. 

Down  glade  and  glen  and  bank  it  rolled  ; 
It  bridged  the  shaded  stream  with  gold  ; 

And,  borne  on  piers  of  mist,  allied 
The  shadowy  with  the  sunlit  side  ! 

"  So,"  prayed  we,  "  when  our  feet  draw  near 
The  river  dark,  with  mortal  fear, 

"  And  the  night  cometh  chill  with  dew, 
O  Father  !  let  thy  light  break  through  ! 

"  So  let  the  hills  of  doubt  divide, 
So  bridge  with  faith  the  sunless  tide  ! 

"So  let  the  eyes  that  fail  on  earth 
On  thy  eternal  hills  look  forth  ; 

"  And  in  thy  beckoning  angels  know 
The  dear  ones  whom  we  loved  below !  " 


THE  RIVER  PATH. 

No  bird-song  floated  down  the  hill, 
The  tangled  bank  below  was  still ; 


A  MEMORIAL. 

M.    A.    C. 

O,  THICKER,  deeper,  darker  growing, 

The  solemn  vista  to  the  tomb 
Must  know  henceforth  another  shadow, 

And  give  another  cypress  room. 

In  love  surpassing  that  of  brothers, 

We  walked,  O  friend,  from  childhood's  day 

.And,  looking  back  o^er  fifty  summers, 
Our  footprints  track  a  common  way. 

One  in  our  faith,  and  one  our  longing 
To  make  the  world  within  our  reach 


308 


A  HYMN. 


Somewhat  the  better  for  our  living, 
And  gladder  for  our  human  speech. 

Thou  heard' st  with  me  the  far-off  voices, 
The  old  beguiling  song  of  fame, 

But  life  to  thee  was  warm  and  present, 
And  love  was  better  than  a  name. 

To  homely  joys  and  loves  and  friendships 
Thy  genial  nature  fondly  clung  ; 

And  so  the  shadow  on  the  dial 
Ran  back  and  left  thee  always  young. 

And  who  could  blame  the  generous  weakness 

Which,  only  to  thyself  unjust, 
So  overprized  the  worth  of  others, 

And  dwarfed  thy  own  with  self -distrust  ? 

All  hearts  grew  warmer  in  the  presence 
Of  one  who,  seeking  not  his  own, 

Gave  freely  for  the  love  of  giving, 
Nor  reaped  for  self  the  harvest  sown. 

Thy  greeting  smile  was  pledge  and  prelude 
Of  generous  deeds  and  kindly  words  ; 

In  thy  large  heart  were  fair  guest-chambers, 
Open  to  sunrise  and  the  birds  ! 

The  task  was  thine  to  mould  and  fashion 
Life's  plastic  newness  into  grace: 

To  make  the  boyish  heart  heroic, 
And  light  with  thought  the  maiden's  face. 

O'er  all  the  land,  in  town  and  prairie, 
With  bended  beads  of  mourning,  stand 

The  living  forms  that  owe  their  beauty 
And  fitness  to  thy  shaping  hand. 

Thy  call  has  come  in  ripened  manhood, 
The  noonday  calm  of  heart  and  mind, 

While  I,  who  dreamed  of  thy  remaining 
To  mourn  me,  linger  still  behind  : 

Live  on,  to  own,  with  self -upbraiding, 
A  debt  of  love  still  due  from  me, — 

The  vain  remembrance  of  occasions, 
Forever  lost,  of  serving  thee. 

It  was  not  mine  among  thy  kindred 
To  join  the  silent  funeral  prayers, 

But  all  that  long  sad  day  of  summer 
My  tears  of  mourning  dropped  with  theirs. 

All  day  the  sea-waves  sobbed  with  sorrow, 
The  birds  forgot  their  merry  trills  : 

All  day  I  heard  the  pines  lamenting 
With  thine  upon  thy  homestead  hills. 

Green  be  those  hillside  pines  forever, 
And  green  the  meadowy  lowlands  be, 

And  green  the  old  memorial  beeches, 
Name-carven  in  the  woods  of  Lee  ! 


Still  let  them  greet  thy  life  companions 
Who  thither  turn  their  pilgrim  feet, 

In  every  mossy  line  recalling 
A  tender  memory  sadly  sweet. 

O  friend  !  if  thought  and  sense  avail  not 
To  know  thee  henceforth  as  thou  art, 

That  all  is  well  with  thee  forever 
I  trust  the  instincts  of  my  heart. 

Thine  be  the  quiet  habitations, 

Thine  the  green  pastures,  blossom-sown, 
And  smiles  of  saintly  recognition, 

As  sweet  and  tender  as  thy  own. 

Thou  com'st  not  from  the  hush  and  shadow 
To  meet  us,  bub  to  tiiee  we  come  ; 

With  thee  we  never  can  be  strangers, 
And  where  thou  art  must  still  be  home. 


HYMN, 

SUNG  AT    CHRISTMAS    BY  THE    SCHOLARS  OF    ST. 

HELENA'S  ISLAND,  s.  c. 

O  NONE  in  all  the  world  bfefore  ' , 

Were  ev*er  glad  as  we  ! 
We  're  free  on  Carolina's  shore, 

We  're  all  at  home  and  free. 

Thou  Friend  and  Helper  of  the  poor, 

Who  suffered  for  our  sake, 
To  open  every  prison  door, 

And  every  yoke  to  break  ! 

Bend  low  Thy  pitying  face  and  mild, 

And  help  us  sing  and  pray  ; 
The  hand  that  blessed  the  little  child, 

Upon  our  foreheads  lay. 

We  hear  no  more  the  driver's  horn, 

No  more  the  whip  we  fear, 
This  holy  day  that  saw  Thee  born 

Was  never  half  so  dear. 

The  very  oaks  are  greener  clad, 

The  waters  brighter  smile  ;    • 
O  never  shone  a  day  so  glad 

On  sweet  St.  Helen's  Isle. 

We  praise  Thee  in  our  songs  to-day, 

To  thee  in  prayer  we  call, 
Make  swift  the  feet  and  straight  the  way 

Of  freedom  unto  all. 

Come  once  again,  O  blessed  Lord  ! 

Come  walking  on  the  sea  ! 
And  let  the  mainlands  hear  the  word 

That  sets  the  islands  free  ! 


SNOW  BOUND. 


209 


A  WINTER  IDYL. 

1865. 


•  TO    THE    MEMORY 

OF 

THE  HOUSEHOLD  IT  DESCRIBES, 

THIS  POEM  IS  DEDICATED  BY  THE  AUTHOR, 


"  As  the  Spirits  of  Darkness  be  stronger  in  the  dark, 
so  Good  Spirits  which  be  Angels  of  Light  are  aug 
mented  not  only  by  the  Divine  light  of  the  Sun,  but  also 
by  our  common  Wood  Fire :  and  as  the  Celestial  Fire 
drives  away  dark  spirits,  so  also  this  our  Fire  of  Vyood 
doth  the  same/'— Con.  AGRIPPA,  Occult  Philosophy, 
Book  I.  ch.  v. 

"  Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow ;  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight ;  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heaven 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm." 

EMERSON. 

THE  sun  that  brief  December  day 

Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 

And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 

A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 

Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 

Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 

A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out, 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid- vein,  the  circling  race 
Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east ;  we  heard  the  roar 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 

14 


And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 
Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores, — 

Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors, 

Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 

Raked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the  cows ; 

Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn ; 

And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 

Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 

The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows , 

While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 

Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 

The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 

And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent. 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 

The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 

A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm, 

And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 

As  zigzag  wavering  to  and  fro 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow  : 

And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 

The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 

And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line  posts 

Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts. 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on  : 
The  morning  broke  without  a  sun ; 
In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 
Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 
In  starry  flake,  and  pellicle, 
All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell ; 


210 


SNOW  BOUND. 


And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below, — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow  ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvellous  shapes  ;  strange  domes  and 

towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 
Or  garden-wall,  or  belt  of  wood  ; 
A    smooth     white    mound     the    brush-pile 

showed, 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road  ; 
The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 
With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat ; 
The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof ; 
And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 
In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 
Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 

A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted  :   u  Boys,  a  path  !  " 
Well  pleased,  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 
Count  such  a  summons  less  than  joy  ?) 
Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew ; 

With  mittened  hands,  and  caps  drawn  low,  j 
To  guard  our  necks  and  ears  from  snow, 
We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through. 
And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 
A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid 
With  dazzling  crystal :  we  had  read 
Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave, 
And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 
With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were  ours 
To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  powers. 
We  reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 
And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 
The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out, 
And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about ; 
The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said, 
And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led  ; 
The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked, 
And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked ; 
The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 
Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep, 
Shook  h'is  sage  head  with  gesture  mute,  • 
And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 

All  day  the  gusty  north- wind  bore 

The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before  ; 

Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone, 

The  sun  through  dazzling  snow-mist  shone. 

No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 

To  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 

Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak. 

A  solitude  made  more  intense 

By  dreary-voiced  elements, 

The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 

The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 

And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 

Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet. 

Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 

No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 

Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 

Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 

We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear 

The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 

The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 

Had  been  to  us  companionship, 

And,  in  our  lonely  life,  had  grown 

To  have  an  almost  human  tone. 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 
Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 
The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 
From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 
We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney -back, — 


The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick ; 
The  knotty  f  orestick  laid  apart, 
And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush  ;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 
Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 
On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 
Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room 
Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom 
While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 
Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 
And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 
Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing  free. 
The  crane  and  pendent  trammels  showed, 
The  Turks'  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed  ; 
While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 
The  meaning  of  the  miracle, 
Whispered  the  old  rhyme :    Under  the  tree, 
When  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily, 
There  the  witches  are  making  tea.'1'1 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 
Shone  at  its  full ;  the  hill-range  stood 
Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood, 
Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 
Dead  white,  save  where  some  sharp  ravine 
Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 
Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 
Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back. 
For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 
Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light, 
Which  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 
To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without, 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about, 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 
In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat ; 
And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 
Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed, 
The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 
The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 
Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet, 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 
And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 

What  matter  how  the  night  behaved  ? 

What  matter  how  the  north- wind  raved  ? 

Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 

Could  quench  our  hearth-fire's  ruddy  glow. 

O  Time  and  Change  !— with  hair  as  gray 

As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day, 

How  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much  gone 

Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on  ! 

Ah,  brother  !  only  I  and  thou 

Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now, — 

The  dear  home  faces  whereupon 

That  fitful  firelight  paled  and  shone. 

Henceforward,  listen  as  we  will, 

The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still ; 

Look  where  we  may,  the  wide  earth  o'er, 

Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more. 

We  tread  the  paths  their  feet  have  worn, 

Wre  sit  beneath  their  orchard  trees, 

We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees 
And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn  ; 
We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read, 

Their  written  words  we  linger  o'er, 
But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 
No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made, 

No  step  is  on  the  conscioiis  floor  ! 


SNOW  BOUND. 


211 


Yet  Love  will  dream,  and  Faith  will  trust, 
(Since  He  who  knows  our  need  is  just,) 
That  somehow,  somewhere,  meet  we  must. 
Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress-trees  ! 
Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away, 
Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play  ! 
Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith, 

The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 

And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own  ! 

We  sped  the  time  with  stories  old, 
Wrought  puzzles  out,  and  riddles  told, 
Or  stammered  from  our  school-book  lore 
"  The  Chief  of  Gambia's  golden  shore." 
How  often  since,  when  all  the  land 
Was  clay  in  Slavery's  shaping  hand, 
As  if  a  trumpet  called,  I  've  heard 
Dame  Mercy  Warren's  rousing  word  : 
"Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry, 

Claim  the  first  right  ivhich  NatTire  gave, 
From  the  red  scourge  oj 'bondage  fly \ 

Nor  deign  to  live  a  burdened  slave  !  " 
Our  father  rode  again  his  ride 
On  Memphremagog's  wooded  side  ; 
Sat  down  again  to  moose  and  samp 
In  trapper's  hut  and  Indian  camp ; 
Lived  o'er  the  old  idyllic  ease 
Beneath  St.  Francois'  hemlock-trees  ; 
Again  for  him  the  moonlight  shone 
On  Norman  cap  and  bodiced  zone ; 
Again  he  heard  the  violin  play 
Which  led  the  village  dance  away, 
And  mingled  in  its  merry  whirl 
The  grandam  and  the  laughing  girl. 
Or,  nearer  home,  our  steps  he  led 
Where  Salisbury's  level  marshes  spread 

Mile-wide  as  flies  the  laden  bee  ; 
Where  merry  mowers,  hale  and  strong, 
Swept,  scythe  on  scythe,  their  swaths  along 

The  low  green  prairies  of  the  sea. 
We  shared  the  fishing  off  Boar's  Head, 

And  around  the  rocky  Isles  of  Shoals 

The  hake-broil  on  the  drift-wood  coals ; 
The  chowder  on  the  sand-beach  made, 
Dipped  by  the  hungry,  steaming  hot, 
With  spoons  of  clam-shell  from  the  pot. 
We  heard  the  tales  of  witchcraft  old, 
And  dream  and  sign  and  marvel  told 
To  sleepy  listeners  as  they  lay 
Stretched  idly  on  the  salted  hay, 

Adrift  along  the  winding  shores, 
When  favoring  breezes  deigned  to  blow 
The  square  sail  of  the  gundelow 

And  idle  lay  the  useless  oars. 

Our  mother,  while  she  turned  her  wheel 
Or  run  the  new-knit  stocking-heel, 
Told  how  the  Indian  hordes  came  down 
At  midnight  on  Cochecho  town, 
And  how  her  own  great-uncle  bore 
His  cruel  scalp-mark  to  fourscore. 
Recalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase, 
So  rich  and  picturesque  and  free, 
(The  common  unrhymed  poetry 
Of  simple  life  and  country  ways.) 
The  story  of  her  early  days, — 
She  made  us  welcome  to  her  home ; 
Old  hearths  grew  wide  to  give  us  room  ; 
We  stole  with  her  a  frightened  look 
At  the  gray  wizard's  conjuring-book, 
The  fame  whereof  went  far  and  wide 
Through  all  the  simple  country  side ; 
We  heard  the  hawks  at  twilight  play, 
The  boat-horn  on  Piscataqua, 
The  loon's  weird  laughter  far  away  ; 
We  fished  her  little  trout-brook,  knew 
What  flowers  in  wood  and  meadow  grew, 


What  sunny  hillsides  autumn-brown 
She  climbed  to  shake  the  ripe  nuts  down, 
Saw  where  in  sheltered  cove  and  bay 
The  ducks'  black  squadron  anchored  lay, 
And  heard  the  wild-geese  calling  loud 
Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud. 

Then,  haply,  with  a  look  more  grave, 

And  soberer  tone,  some  tale  she  gave 

From  painful  Sewell's  ancient  tome, 

Beloved  in  every  Quaker  home, 

Of  faith  fire-winged  by  martyrdom, 

Or  Chalkley's  Journal,  old  and  quaint, — 

Gentlest  of  skippers,  rare  sea-saint ! — 

Who,  when  the  dreary  calms  prevailed, 

And  water-butt  and  bread-cask  failed, 

And  cruel,  hungry  eyes  pursued 

His  portly  presence  mad  for  food, 

With  dark  hints  muttered  under  breath 

Of  casting  lots  for  life  or  death, 

Offered,  if  Heaven  withheld  supplies, 

To  be  himself  the  sacrifice. 

Then,  suddenly,  as  if  to  save 

The  good  man  from  his  living  grave, 

A  ripple  on  the  water  grew, 

A  school  of  porpoise  flashed  in  view. 

"  Take,  eat,"  he  said,  "  and  be  content ; 

These  fishes  in  my  stead  are  sent 

By  Him  who  gave  the  tangled  ram 

To  spare  the  child  of  Abraham." 

Our  uncle,  innocent  of  books, 

Was  rich  in  lore  of  fields  and  brooks, 

The  ancient  teachers  never  dumb 

Of  Nature's  unhoused  lyceum. 

In  moons  and  tides  and  weather  wise, 

He  read  the  clouds  as  prophecies, 

And  foul  or  fair  could  well  divine, 

By  many  an  occult  hint  and  sign, 

Holding  the  cunning-warded  keys 

To  all  the  woodcraft  mysteries  ; 

Himself  to  Nature's  heart  so  near 

That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 

Of  beast  or  bird  had  meanings  clear, 

Like  Apollonius  of  old, 

Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows  told, 

Or  Hermes  who  interpreted 

W'hat  the  sage  cranes  of  Nilus  said  ; 

A  simple,  guileless,  childlike  man, 

Content  to  live  where  life  began  ; 

Strong  only  on  his  native  grounds, 

The  little  world  of  sights  and  sounds 

Whose  girdle  was  the  parish  bounds, 

Whereof  his  fondly  partial  pride 

The  common  features  magnified. 

As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew 

In  White  of  Selborne's  loving  view, — 

He  told  how  teal  and  loon  he  shot, 

And  how  the  eagle's  eggs  he  got, 

The  feats  on  pond  and  river  done, 

The  prodigies  of  rod  and  gun  ; 

Till,  warming  with  the  tales  he  told, 

Forgotten  was  the  outside  cold, 

The  bitter  wind  unheeded  blew, 

From  ripening  corn  the  pigeons  flew, 

The  partridge  drummed  i'  the  wood,  the  mink 

Went  fishing  down  the  river-brink. 

In  fields  with  bean  or  clover  gay, 

The  woodchuck,  like  a  hermit  gray, 

Peered  from  the  doorway  of  his  cell ; 
The  muskrat  plied  the  mason's  trade, 
And  tier  by  tier  his  mud-walls  laid  ; 
And  from  the  shagbark  overhead 

The  grizzled  squirrel  dropped  his  shell. 

Next,  the  dear  aunt,  whose  smile  of  cheer 
And  voice  in  dreams  I  see  and  hear, 
The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 
Perverse  denied  a  household  mate, 


212 


SNOW  BOUND. 


Who,  lonely,  homeless,  not  the  less 
Found  peace  in  love's  unselfishness, 
And  welcome  wheresoe'er  she  went, 
A  calm  and  gracious  element, 
Whose  presence  seemed  the  sweet  income 
And  womanly  atmosphere  of  home, — 
Called  up  her  girlhood  memories, 
The  huskings  and  the  apple-bees, 
The  sleigh-rides  and  the  summer  sails, 
Weaving  through  all  the  poor  details 
And  homespun  warp  of  circumstance 
A  golden  woof -thread  of  romance. 
For  well  she  kept  her  genial  mood 
And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood  ; 
Before  her  still  a  cloud-land  lay, 
The  mirage  loomed  across  her  way ; 
The  morning  dew,  that  dries  so  soon 
With  others,  glistened  at  her  noon ; 
Through  years  of  toil  and  soil  and  care, 
From  glossy  tress  to  thin  gray  hair, 
All  unprofaned  she  held  apart 
The  virgin  fancies  of  the  heart. 
Be  shame  to  him  of  woman  born 
Who  hath  for  such  but  thought  of  scorn. 

There,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied 
Her  evening  task  the  stand  beside  ; 
A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust, 
Truthful  and  almost  sternly  just, 
Impulsive,  earnest,  prompt  to  act, 
And  make  her  generous  thought  a  fact, 
Keeping  with  many  a  light  disguise 
The  secret  of  self-sacrifice. 

0  heart  sore-tried  !  thou  hast  the  best 
That  Heaven  itself  could  give  thee, — rest, 
Rest  from  all  bitter  thoughts  and  things  ! 

How  many  a  poor  one's  blessing  went 
With  thee  beneath  the  low  green  tent 
Whose  curtain  never  outward  swings  ! 

As  one  who  held  herself  a  part 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 

Against  the  household  bosom  lean, 
Upon  the  motley-braided  mat 
Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat, 
Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes, 

Now  bathed  within  the  fadeless  green 
And  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 
O,  looking  from  some  heavenly  hill, 

Or  from  the  shade  of  saintly  palms, 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  calms, 
Do  those  large  eyes  behold  me  still  ? 
With  me  one  little  year  ago  : — 
The  chill  weight  of  the  winter  snow 

For  months  upon  her  grave  has  lain  ; 
And  now,  when  summer  south-winds  blow 
•  And  brier  and  harebell  bloom  again, 

1  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod, 
I  see  the  violet-sprinkled  sod 
Whereon  she  leaned,  too  frail  and  weak 
The  hillside  flowers  she  loved  to  seek 
Yet  following  me  where'er  I  went 
With  dark  eyes  full  of  love's  content. 
The  birds  are  glad  ;    the  brier-rose  fills 
The  air  with  sweetness  ;  all  the  hills 
Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky ; 
But  still  I  wait  with  ear  and  eye 

For  something  gone  which  should  be  nigh, 
A  loss  in  all  familiar  things, 
In  flower  that  blooms,  and  bird  that  sings. 
And  yet,  dear  heart !  remembering  thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old  ? 
Safe  in  thy  immortality, 

What  change  can  reach  the  wealth  I  hold  ?  ! 

What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and  gold 
Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  with  me  ? 
And  while  in  life's  late  afternoon, 

Where  cool  and  long  the  shadows  grow, 
I  walk  to  meet  the  night  that  soon 

Shall  shape  and  shadow  overflow, 


I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are  : 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand, 
And,  white  against  the  evening  star, 

The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand  ? 

Brisk  wielder  of  the  birch  and  rule, 

The  master  of  the  district  school 

Held  at  the  fire  his  favored  place, 

Its  warm  glow  lit  a  laughing  face 

Fresh-hued  and  fair,  where  scarce  appeared 

The  uncertain  prophecy  of  beard. 

He  teased  the  mitten-blinded  cat, 

Played  cross-pins  on  my  uncle's  hat, 

Sang  songs,  and  told  us  what  befalls 

In  classic  Dartmouth's  college  halls. 

Born  the  wild  Northern  hills  among, 

From  whence  his  yeoman  father  wrung 

By  patient  toil  subsistence  scant, 

Not  competence  and  yet  not  want, 

He  early  gained  the  power  to  pay 

His  cheerful,  self-reliant  way  ; 

Could  doff' at  ease  his  scholar's  gown 

To  peddle  wares  from  town  to  town ; 

Or  through  the  long  vacation's  reach 

In  lonely  lowland  districts  teach, 

Where  all  the  droll  experience  found 

At  stranger  hearths  in  boarding  round, 

The  moonlit  skater's  keen  delight, 

The  sleigh-drive  through  the  frosty  night. 

The  rustic  party,  with  its  rough 

Accompaniment  of  blind-man's-buff, 

And  whirling  plate,  and  forfeits  paid, 

His  winter  task  a  pastime  made. 

Happy  the  snow-locked  homes  wherein 

He  tuned  his  merry  violin, 

Or  played  the  athlete  in  the  barn, 

Or  held  the  good  dame's  winding-yarn, 

Or  mirth-provoking  versions  told 

Of  classic  legends  rare  and  old, 

Wherein  the  scenes  of  Greece  and  Rome 

Had  all  the  commonplace  of  home, 

And  little  seemed  at  best  the  odds 

'Twixt  Yankee  pedlers  and  old  gods  ; 

Where  Pindus-born  Araxes  took 

The  guise  of  any  grist-mill  brook, 

And  dread  Olympus  at  his  will 

Became  a  huckleberry  hill. 

A  careless  boy  that  night  he  seemed  ; 

But  at  his  desk  he  had  the  look 
And  air  of  one  who  wisely  schemed, 
And  hostage  from  the  future  took 
In  trained  thought  and  lore  of  book. 
Large-brained,  clear- eyed, — of  such  as  he 
Shall  Freedom's  young  apostles  be, 
Who,  following  in  War's  bloody  trail, 
Shall  every  lingering  wrong  assail ; 
All  chains  from  limb  and  spirit  strike, 
Uplift  the  black  and  white  alike  ; 
Scatter  before  their  swift  advance 
The  darkness  and  the  ignorance, 
The  pride,  the  lust,  the  squalid  sloth, 
Which  nurtured  Treason's  monstrous  growth, 
Made  murder  pastime,  and  the  hell 
Of  prison-torture  possible  ; 
The  cruel  lie  of  caste  refute, 
Old  forms  remould,  and  substitute 
For  Slavery's  lash  the  freeman's  will, 
For  blind  routine,  and  wise-handed  skill ; 
A  school-house  plant  on  every  hill, 
Stretching  in  radiate  nerve-lines  thence 
The  quick  wires  of  intelligence  ; 
Till  North  and  South  together  brought 
Shall  own  the  same  electric  thought, 
In  peace  a  common  flag  salute, 
And,  side  by  side  in  labor's  free 
And  unresentful  rivalry, 
Harvest  the  fields  wherein  they  fought. 


SNOW  BOUND. 


1  We  saw  the  half-buried  oxen." 


Another  guest  that  winter  night 

Plashed  back  from  lustrous  eyes  the  light- 

Unmarked  by  time,  and  yet  not  young, 

The  honeyed  music  ol  her  tongue 

And  words  of  meekness  scarcely  told 

A  nature  passionate  and  bold, 

Strong,  self-concentred,  spurning  guide, 

Its  milder  features  dwarfed  beside 

Her  unbent  will's  majestic  pride. 

She  sat  among  us,  at  the  best, 

A  not  unf  eared,  half -welcome  guest, 

Rebuking  with  her  cultured  phrase 

Our  homeliness  of  words  and  ways. 

A  certain  pard-like,  treacherous  grace 
Swayed  the  lithe  limbs  and  dropped  the  lash, 
Lent  the  white  teeth  their  dazzling  flash  ; 
And  under  low  brows,  black  with  night, 
Rayed  out  at  times  a  dangerous  light ; 

The  sharp  heat-lightnings  of  her  face 

Presaging  ill  to  him  whom  Fate 

Condemned  to  share  her  love  or  hate, 

A  woman  tropical,  intense 

In  thought  and  act,  in  soul  and  sense, 

She  blended  in  a  like  degree 

The  vixen  and  the  devotee, 

Revealing  with  each  freak  or  feint 
The  temper  of  Petruchio's  Kate, 

The  raptures  of  Siena's  saint. 

Her  tapering  hand  and  rounded  wrist 

Had  facile  power  to  form  a  fist ; 

The  warm,  dark  languish  of  her  eyes 

Was  never  safe  from  wrath' s  surprise. 

Brows  saintly  calm  and  lips  devout 

Knew  every  change  of  scowl  and  pout ; 

And  the  sweet  voice  had  notes  more  high 

And  shrill  for  social  battle-cry. 

Since  then  what  old  cathedral  town 

Has  missed  her  pilgrim  staff  and  gown, 

What  convent-gate  has  held  its  lock 

Against  the  challenge  of  her  knock  ! 

Through     Smyrna's     plague-hushed     thorough 
fares, 

Up  sea-set  Malta's  rocky  stairs, 

Gray  olive  slopes  of  hills  that  hem 

Thy  tombs  and  shrines,  Jerusalem, 

Or  startling  on  her  desert  throne 

The  crazy  Queen  of  Lebanon 

With  claims  fantastic  as  her  own, 


Her  tireless  feet  have  held  their  way ; 

And  still,  unrestf  ul,  bowed,  and  gray, 

She  watches  under  Eastern  skies, 

With  hope  each  day  renewed  and  fresh, 
The  Lord's  quick  coming  in  the  flesh, 

Whereof  she  dreams  and  prophesies ! 

Where'er  her  troubled  path  may  be, 

The  Lord's  sweet  pity  with  her  go  ! 
The  outward  wayward  'life  we  see, 

The  hidden  springs  we  may  not  know. 
Nor  is  it  given  us  to  discern 

What  threads  the  fatal  sisters  spun, 

Through  what  ancestral  years  had  run. 
The  sorrow  with  the  woman  born, 
What  forged  her  cruel  chain  of  moods, 
What  set  her  feet  in  solitudes, 

And  held  the  love  within  her  mute, 
What  mingled  madness  in  the  blood, 

A  life-long  discord  and  annoy, 

Water  of  tears  with  oil  of  joy, 
And  hid  within  the  folded  bud 

Perversities  of  flower  and  fruit. 
It  is  not  ours  to  separate 
The  tangled  skein  of  will  and  fate, 
To  show  what  metes  and  bounds  should  stand 
Upon  the  soul's  debatable  land, 
And  between  choice  and  Providence 
Divide  the  circle  of  events  ; 

But  He  who  knows  our  frame  is  just, 
Merciful  and  compassionate, 
And  full  of  sweet  assurances 
And  hope  for  all  the  language  is, 

That  He  remembereth  we  are  dust ! 
At  last  the  great  logs,  crumbling  low, 
Sent  out  a  dull  and  duller  glow, 
The  bull' s-eye  watch  that  hung  in  view, 
Ticking  its  weary  circuit  through, 
Pointed  with  mutely  warning  sign 
Its  black  hand  to  the  hour  of  nine. 
That  sign  the  pleasant  circle  broke  : 
My  uncle  ceased  his  pipe  to  smoke, 
Knocked  from  its  bowl  the  refuse  gray, 
And  laid  it  tenderly  away, 
Then  roused  himself  to  safely  cover 
The  dull  red  brands  with  ashes  over. 
And  while,  with  care,  our  mother  laid 
The  work  aside,  her  steps  she  stayed 


214 


SNOW  BOUND. 


One  moment,  seeking  to  express 
Her  grateful  sense  of  happiness 
For  food  and  shelter,  warmth  and  health. 
And  love's  contentment  more  than  wealth, 
With  simple  wishes  (not  the  weak, 
Vain  prayers  which  no  fulfilment  seek, 
But  such  as  warm  the  generous  heart, 
O'er-prompt  to  do  with  Heaven  its  part) 
That  none  might  lack,  that  bitter  night, 
For  bread  and  clothing,  warmth  and  light. 

Within  our  beds  awhile  we  heard 
The  wind  that  round  the  gables  roared, 
With  now  and  then  a  ruder  shock, 
Which  made  our  very  bedsteads  rock. 
We  heard  the  loosened  clapboards  tost, 
The  board-nails  snapping  in  the  frost ; 
And  on  us,  through  the  unplastered  wall, 
Felt  the  light  sifted  snow-flakes  fall. 
But  sleep  stole  on,  as  sleep  will  do 
When  hearts  are  light  and  life  is  new  ; 
Faint  and  more  faint  the  murmurs  grew  ; 
Till  in  the  summer-land  of  dreams 
They  softened  to  the  sound  of  streams, 
Low  stir  of  leaves,  and  dip  of  oars, 
And  lapsing  waves  on  quiet  shores. 

Next  morn  we  wakened  with  the  shout 
Of  merry  voices  high  and  clear  ; 
And  saw  the  teamsters  drawing  near 
To  break  the  drifted  highways  out. 
Down  the  long  hillside  treading  slow 
We  saw  the  half-buried  oxen  go, 
Shaking  the  snow  from  heads  uptost, 
Their  straining  nostrils  white  with  frost. 
Before  our  door  the  straggling  train 
Drew  up,  an  added  team  to  gain. 
The  elders  threshed  their  hands  a-cold, 
Passed,  with  the  cider-mug,  their  jokes 
From  lip  to  lip  ;  the  younger  folks 
Down  the  loose  snow-banks,  wrestling,  rolled, 
Then  toiled  again  the  cavalcade 

O'er  windy  hill,  through  clogged  ravine, 
And  woodland  paths  that  wound  between 
Low  drooping  pine-boughs  winter-weighed, 
From  every  barn  a  team  afoot, 
At  every  house  a  new  recruit, 
Where,  drawn  by  Nature's  subtlest  law 
Haply  the  watchful  young  men  saw 
Sweet  doorway  pictures  of  the  curls 
And  curious  eyes  of  merry  girls, 
Lifting  their  hands  in  mock  defence 
Against  the  snow-ball's  compliments, 
And  reading  in  each  missive  tost 
The  charm  with  Eden  never  lost. 

We  heard  once  more  the  sleigh-bells'  sound ; 

And,  following  where  the  teamsters  led, 
The  wise  old  Doctor  went  his  round, 
Just  pausing  at  our  door  to  say, 
In  the  brief  autocratic  way 
Of  one  who,  prompt  at  Duty's  call, 
Was  free  to  urge  her  claim  on  all, 

That  some  poor  neighbor  sick  abed 
At  night  our  mother's  aid  would  need. 
For,  one  in  generous  thought  and  deed, 

What  mattered  in  the  sufferer's  sight 

The  Quaker  matron's  inward  light, 
The  Doctor's  mail  of  Calvin's  creed  ? 
All  hearts  confess  the  saints  elect 

Who,  twain  in  faith,  in  love  agree, 
And  melt  not  in  an  acid  sect 

The  Christian  pearl  of  charity ! 

So  days  went  on  :  a  week  had  passed 
Since  the  great  world  was  heard  from  last. 
The  Almanac  we  studied  o'er, 
Read  and  reread  our  little  store, 
Of  books  and  pamphlets,  scarce  a  score  ; 
One  harmless  novel,  mostly  hid 
From  younger  eyes,  a  book  forbid, 
And  poetry,  (or  good  or  bad, 


A  single  book  was  all  we  had,) 

Where  Ellwood's  meek,  drab-skirted  Muse, 
A  stranger  to  the  heathen  Nine, 
Sang,  with  a  somewhat  nasal  whine, 

The  wars  of  David  and  the  Jews. 

At  last  the  floundering  carrier  bore 

The  village  paper  to  our  door. 

Lo  !  broadening  outward  as  we  read, 
To  warmer  zones  the  horizon  spread  ; 
In  panoramic  length  unrolled 
We  saw  the  marvels  that  it  told. 
Before  us  passed  the  painted  Creeks, 

And  daft  McGregor  on  his  raids 

In  Costa  Rica's  everglades. 
And  up  Taygetos  winding  slow 
Rode  Ypsilanti's  Mainote  Greeks, 
A  Turk's  head  at  each  saddle-bow  I 
Welcome  to  us  its  week-old  news, 
Its  corner  for  the  rustic  Muse, 

Its  monthly  gauge  of  snow  and  rain, 
Its  record,  mingling  in  a  breath 
The  wedding  knell  and  dirge  of  death ; 
Jest,  anecdote,  and  love-lorn  tale, 
The  latest  culprit  sent  to  jail ; 
Its  hue  and  cry  of  stolen  and  lost, 
Its  vendue  sales  and  goods  at  cost, 

And  traffic  calling  loud  for  gain. 
We  felt  the  stir  of  hall  and  street, 
The  pulse  of  life  that  round  us  beat ; 
The  chill  embargo  of  the  snow 
Was  melted  in  the  genial  glow  ; 
Wide  swung  again  our  ice-locked  door, 
And  all  the  world  was  ours  once  more  ! 

Clasp,  Angel  of  the  backward  look 

And  folded  wings  of  ashen  gray 

And  voice  of  echoes  far  away, 
The  brazen  covers  of  thy  book ; 
The  weird  palimpsest  old  and  vast, 
Wherein  thou  hid'st  the  spectral  past ; 
Where,  closely  mingling,  pale  and  glow 
The  characters  of  joy  and  woe ; 
The  monographs  of  outlived  years, 
Or  smile-illumed  or  dim  with  tears, 

Green  hills  of  life  that  slope  to  death, 
And  haunts  of  home,  whose  vistaed  trees 
Shade  off  to  mournful  cypresses 

With  the  white  amaranths  underneath. 
Even  while  I  look,  I  can  but  heed 

The  restless  sands'  incessant  fall, 
Importunate  hours  that  hours  succeed, 
Each  clamorous  with  its  own  sharp  need, 

And  duty  keeping  pace  with  all. 
Shut  down  and  clasp  the  heavy  lids  ; 
I  hear  again  the  voice  that  bids 
The  dreamer  leave  his  dream  midway 
For  larger  hopes  and  graver  fears  : 
Life  greatens  in  these  later  years, 
The  century's  aloe  flowers  to-day  ! 

Yet,  haply,  in  some  lull  of  life, 

Some  Truce  of  God  which  breaks  its  strife, 

The  worldling's  eyes  shall  gather  dew, 

Dreaming  in  throngf  ul  city  ways 
Of  winter  joys  his  boyhood  knew  ; 
And  dear  and  early  friends — the  few 
Who  yet  remain — shall  pause  to  view 

These  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days ; 
Sit  with  me  by  the  homestead  hearth, 
And  stretch  the  hands  of  memory  forth 

To  warm  them  at  the  wood-tire's  blaze  ! 
And  thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 
Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 
Wood- fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond  ; 
The  traveller  owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not  whence, 
And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 


THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 


215 


THE  TENT  OlST  THE  BEACH, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


1867. 


I  WOULD  not  sin,  in  this  half -playful  strain, — 

Tool  ight  perhaps  for  serious  years,  though  born 
Of  the  enforced  leisure  of  slow  pain,— 

Against  the  pure  ideal  which  has  drawn 
My  feet  to  follow  its  far-shining  gleam. 
A  simple  plot  is  mine  :  legends  and  runes 
Of  credulous  days,  old  fancies  that  have  lain 
Silent  from  boyhood  taking  voice  again, 
Warmed  into  life  once  m6re,  even  as  the  tunes 
That,  frozen  in  the  fabled  hunting-horn, 
Thawed  into  sound : — a  winter  fireside  dream 
Of  dawns  and  sunsets  by  the  summer  sea, 
Whose  sands  are  traversed  by  a  silent  throng 
Of  voyagers  from  that  vaster  mystery 
Of  which  it  is  an  emblem  ; — and  the  dear 
Memory  of  one  who  might  have  tuned  my  song 
To  sweeter  music  by  her  delicate  ear. 

1st  mo.,  1867. 


THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 

WHEN  heats  as  of  a  tropic  clime 

Burned  all  our  inland  valleys  through, 
Three  friends,  the  guests  of  summer  time, 
Pitched  their  white  tent  where   sea-winds 

blew. 

Behind  them,  marshes,  seamed  and  crossed 
With  narrow  creeks,  and  flower-embossed, 
Stretched  to  the  dark  oak  wood,  whose  leafy  arms 
Screened  from  the  stormy  East  the  pleasant  in 
land  farms. 

At  full  of  tide  their  bolder  shore 

•   Of  sun-bleached  sand  the  waters  beat ; 

At  ebb,  a  smooth  and  glistening  floor 

They  touched  with  light,  receding  feet. 
Northward  a  green  bluff  broke  the  chain 
Of  sand-hills  ;  southward  stretched  a  plain 
Of  salt  grass,  with  a  river  winding  down, 
Sail-whitened,  and  beyond  the  steeples  of  the 
town, 

Whence  sometimes,  when  the  wind  was  light 

And  dull  the  thunder  of  the  beach, 
They  heard  the,  bells  of  morn  and  night 
Swing,  miles  away,  their  silver  speech. 
Above  low  scarp  and  turf -grown  wall 
They  saw  the  fort-flag  rise  and  fall ; 
And,  the  first  star  to  signal  twilight 's  hour, 
The  lamp-fire  glimmer  down  from  the  tall  light 
house  tower. 

They  rested  there,  escaped  awhile 

From  cares  that  wear  the  life  away, 
To  eat  the  lotus  of  the  Nile 

And  drink  the  poppies  of  Cathay, — 
To  fling  their  loads  of  custom  down, 
Like  drift- weed,  on  the  sand-slopes  brown, 
And  in  the  sea  waves  drown  the  restless  pack 
Of  duties,  claims    and  needs  that  barked  upon 
their  track. 

One,  with  his  beard  scarce  silvered,  bore 

A  ready  credence  in  his  looks, 
A  lettered  magnate,  lording  o'er 

An  ever -widening  realm  of  books . 


In  him  brain-currents,  near  and  far, 

Converged  as  in  a  Ley  den  jar  ; 
The  old,  dead  authors  thronged  him  round  about, 
And  Elzevir's  gray  ghosts  from  leathern  graves 
looked  out. 

He  knew  each  living  pundit  well, 

Could  weigh  the  gifts  of  him  or  her, 
And  well  the  market  value  tell 

Of  poet  and  philosopher. 
But  if  he  lost,  the  scenes  behind, 
Somewhat  of  reverence  vague  and  blind, 
Finding  the  actors  human  at  the  best, 
No  readier  lips  than  his  the  good  he  saw  con 
fessed. 

His  boyhood  fancies  not  outgrown, 

He  loved  himself  the  singer's  art ; 
Tenderly,  gently,  by  his  own 

He  knew  and  judged  an  author's  heart. 
No  Rhadamanthine  brow  of  doom 
Bowed  the  dazed  pedant  from  his  room  ; 
And  bards,  whose  name  is  legion,  if  denied, 
Bore  off  alike  intact  their  verses  and  their  pride. 

Pleasant  it  was  to  roam  about 

The  lettered  world  as  he  had  done, 
And  see  the  lords  of  song  without 

Their  singing  robes  and  garlands  on. 
With  Wordsworth  paddle  Rydal  mere, 
Taste  rugged  Elliott's  home- brewed  beer, 
And  with  the  ears  of  Rogers,  at  four-score, 
Hear  Gar  rick's  buskined  tread  and  Walpole's  wit 
once  more. 

And  one  there  was,  a  dreamer  born, 

Who,  with  a  mission  to  fulfil, 
Had  left  the  Muses'  haunts  to  turn 

The  crank  of  an  opinion-mill, 
Making  his  rustic  reed  of  song 
A  weapon  in  the  war  with  wrong, 
Yoking  his  fancy  to  the  breaking-plough 
That  beam-deep   turned    the  soil  for  truth   to 
t    spring  and  grow. 

Too  quiet  seemed  the  man  to  ride 
The  winged  Hippogriff  Reform  ; 
Was  his  a  voice  from  side  to  side 

To  pierce  the  tumult  of  the  storm  ? 
A  silent,  shy,  peace-loving  man, 
He  seemed  no  fiery  partisan 
To  hold  his  way  against  the  public  frown, 
The  ban  of  Church  and  State,  the  fierce  mob's 
hounding  down. 

For  while  he  wrought  with  strenuous  will 

The  work  his  hands  had  found  to  do, 
He  heard  the  fitful  music  still 

Of  winds  that  out  of  dream-land  blew.  . 
The  din  about  him  could  not  drown 
What  the  strange  voices  whispered  down ; 
Along  his  task-field  weird  processions  swept, 
The  visionary  pomp  of  stately  phantoms  stepped. 

The  common  air  was  thick  with  dreams, — 
He  told  them  to  the  toiling  crowd  ; 

Such  music  as  the  woods  and  streams 
Sang  in  his  ear  he  sang  aloud  ; 


216 


THE  WRECK  OF  RIVERMOUTH. 


In  still,  shut  bays,  on  windy  capes, 
He  heard  the  call  of  beckoning  shapes, 
And,  as  the  gray  old  shadows  prompted  him, 
To  homely  moulds   of   rhyme  he   shaped  their 
legends  grim. 

He  rested  now  his  weary  hands, 

And  lightly  moralized  and  laughed, 
As,  tracing  on  the  shifting  sands 
A  burlesque  of  his  paper-craft, 
He  saw  the  careless  waves  o'errun 
His  words,  as  time  before  had  done, 
Bach  day's  tide-water  washing  clean  away, 
Like  letters  from  the  sand,  the  work  of  yesterday. 

And  one,  whose  Arab  face  was  tanned 

By  tropic  sun  and  boreal  frost, 
So  travelled  there  was  scarce  a  land 

Or  people  left  him  to  exhaust, 
In  idling  mood  had  from  him  hurled 
The  poor  squeezed  orange  of  the  world, 
And  in  the  tent-shade,  as  beneath  a  palm, 
Smoked,   cross-legged  like  a  Turk,  in  Oriental 
calm. 

The  very  waves  that  washed  the  sand 

Below  him,  he  had  seen  before 
Whitening  the  Scandinavian  strand 

And  sultry  Mauritanian  shore. 
From  ice-rimmed  isles,  from  summer  seas 
Palm-fringed,  they  bore  him  messages  ; 
He  heard  the  plaintive  Nubian  songs  again, 
And  mule-bells   tinkling    down    the  mountain- 
paths  of  Spain. 

His  memory  round  the  ransacked  earth 

On  Ariel's  girdle  slid  at  ease  ; 
And,  instant,  to  the  valley's  girth 

Of  mountains,  spice  isles  of  the  seas, 
Faith  flowered  in  minster  stones,  Art's  guess 
At  truth  and  beauty,  found  access ; 
Yet  loved  the  while,  that  free  cosmopolite, 
Old  friends,  old  ways,   and  kept  his  boyhood's 
dreams  in  sight. 

Untouched  as  yet  by  wealth  and  pride, 

That  virgin  innocence  of  beach  : 
No  shingly  monster,  hundred-eyed. 

Stared  its  gray  sand-birds  out  of  reach  ; 
Unhoused,  save  where,  at  intervals, 
The  white  tents  showed  their  canvas  walls, 
Where  brief  sojourners,  in  the  cool,  soft  air, 
Forgot  their  inland  heats,  hard  toil,  and  year 
long  care. 

Sometimes  along  the  wheel-damp  sand 

A  one-horse  wagon  slowly  crawled, 
Deep  laden  with  a  youthful  band, 

Whose  look  some  homestead  old  recalled ; 
Brother  perchance,  and  sisters  twain, 
'  And  one  whose  blue  eyes  told,  more  plain 
Than  the  free  language  of  her  rosy  lip, 
Of  the  still  dearer  claim  of  love's  relationship. 

With  cheeks  of  russet-orchard  tint, 

The  light  laugh  of  their  native  rills, 
The  perfume  of  their  garden's  mint, 

The  breezy  freedom  of  the  hills, 
They  bore,  in  unrestrained  delight, 
The  motto  of  the  Garter's  knight, 
Careless  as  if  from  every  gazing  thing 
Hid  by  their  innocence,  as  Gyges  by  his  ring. 

The  clanging  sea-fowl  came  and  went, 
The  hunter's  gun  in  the  marshes  rang  ; 

At  nightfall  from  a  neighboring  tent 
A  flute-voiced  woman  sweetly  sang, 

Loose-haired,  barefooted,  hand-in-hand, 

Young  girls  went  tripping  down  the  sand  ; 


And  youths  and  maidens,  sitting  in  the  moon, 
Dreamed  o'er  the  old  fond  dream  from  which  we 
wake  too  soon. 

At  times  their  fishing-lines  they  plied, 

With  an  old  Triton  at  the  oar, 
Salt  as  the  sea- wind,  tough  and  dried 

As  a  lean  cusk  from  Labrador. 
Strange  tales  he  told  of  wreck  and  storm, — 
Had  seen  the  sea-snake's  awful  form, 
And  heard  the  ghosts  on  Haley's  Isle  complain, 
Speak  him  off  shore,   and  beg  a  passage  to  old 
Spain ! 

And  there,  on  breezy  morns,  they  saw 
The  fishing-schooners  outward  run, 
Their  low-bent  sails  in  tack  and  flaw 

Turned  white  or  dark  to  shade  and  sun. 
Sometimes,  in  calms  of  closing  day, 
They  watched  the  spectral  mirage  play, 
Saw  low,  far  islands  looming  tall  and  nigh, 
And  ships,  with  upturned  keels,  sail  like  a  sea 
the  sky. 

Sometimes  a  cloud,  with  thunder  black, 
Stooped  low  upon  the  darkening  main, 
Piercing  the  waves  along  its  track 
With  the  slant  javelins  of  rain. 
And  when  west- wind  and  sunshine  wrarm 
Chased  out  to  sea  its  wrecks  of  storm, 
They  saw  the  prismy  hues  in  thin  spray  showers 
Where  the  green  buds  of  waves  burst  into  white 
froth  flowers. 

And  when  along  the  line  of  shore 

The  mists  crept  upward  chill  and  damp, 
Stretched,  careless,  on  their  sandy  floor 

Beneath  the  flaring  lantern  lamp, 
They  talked  of  all  things  old  and  new, 
Read,  slept,  and  dreamed  as  idlers  do  ; 
And  in  the  unquestioned  freedom  of  the  tent, 
Body  and    o'er-taxed    mind    to    healthful  ease 
unbent. 

Once,  when  the  sunset  splendors  died, 
And,  trampling  up  the  sloping  sand, 
In  lines  outreaching  far  and  wide, 

The  white-maned  billows  swept  to  land, 
Dim  seen  across  the  gathering  shade, 
A  vast  and  ghostly  cavalcade, 
They  sat  around  the'ir  lighted  kerosene, 
Hearing  the  deep  bass  roar  their  every  pause 
between. 

Then,  urged  thereto,  the  Editor 

Within  his  full  portfolio  dipped, 
Feigning  excuse  while  searching  for 

(With  secret  pride)  his  manuscript. 
His  pale  face  flushed  from  eye  to  beard, 
With  nervous  cough  his  throat  he  cleared, 
And,  in  a  voice  so  tremulous  it  betrayed 
The  anxious  fondness  of  an  author's  heart,  he 
read : 


THE  WRECK  OF  RIVERMOUTH. 

RIVERMOUTH  Rocks  are  fair  too  see, 

By  dawn  or  sunset  shone  across. 
When  the  ebb  of  the  sea  has  left  them  free, 
To  dry  their  fringes  of  gold-green  moss : 
For  there  the  river  comes  winding  down 
From  salt  sea-meadows  and  uplands  brown, 
And  waves  on  the  outer  rocks  afoam 
Shout  to  its  waters,  "Welcome  home  !  " 


THE  WRECK  OF  RIVERMOUTH. 


217 


And  fair  are  the  sunny  isles  in  view 

East  of  the  grisly  Head  of  the  Boar, 
And  Agamenticus  lifts  its  blue 

Disk  of  a  cloud  the  woodlands  o'er  ; 
And  southerly,  when  the  tide  is  down, 
'  Twixt  white  sea- waves  and  sand-hills  brown, 
The  beach-birds  dance  and  the  gray  gulls  wheel 
Over  a  floor  of  burnished  steel. 

Once,  in  the  old  ColoniaJ  days, 

Two  hundred  years  ago  and  more, 
A  boat  sailed  down  through  the  winding  ways 

Of  Hampton  River  to  that  low  shore, 
Full  of  a  goodly  company 
Sailing  out  on  the  summer  sea, 
Veering  to  catch  the  land-breeze  light, 
With  the  Boar  to  left  and  the  Rocks  to  right. 

In  Hampton  meadows,  where  mowers  laid 

Their  scythes  to  the  swaths  of  salted  grass, 
u  Ah,  well-a-day  !  our  hay  must  be  made  !  " 
A  young  man  sighed,  who  saw  them  pass. 
Loud  laughed  his  fellows  to  see  him  stand 
Whetting  his  scythe  with  a  listless  hand, 
Hearing  a  voice  in  a  far-off'  song, 
Watching  a  white  hand  beckoning  long. 

"Fie  on  the  witch  !  "  cried  a  merry  girl, 

As  they  rounded  the  point  where  Goody  Cole 
Sat  by  her  door  with  her  wheel  atwirl, 

A  bent  and  blear-eyed  poor  old  soul. 

"  Oho  !  "  she  muttered,  "ye 're  brave  to-day  ! 
But  I  hear  the  little  waves  laugh  and  say, 

'  The  broth  will  be  cold  that  waits  at  home  ; 
For  it 's  one  to  go,  but  another  to  come ! '  " 

''She's  cursed,"  said  the   skipper;  "speak  her 
fair: 

I'm  scary  always  to  see  her  shake 
Her  wicked  head,  with  its  wild  gray  hair, 

And  nose  like  a  hawk,  and  eyes  like  a  snake. " 
But  merrily  still,  with  laugh  and  shout, 
From  Hampton  River  the  boat  sailed  out, 
Till  the  huts  and  the  flakes  on  Star  seemed  nigh, 
And  they  lost  the  scent  of  the  pines  of  Rye. 

They  dropped  their  lines  in  the  lazy  tide, 
Drawing  up  haddock  and  mottled  cod ; 

They  saw  not  the  Shadow  that  walked  beside, 
They  heard  not  the  feet  with  silence  shod. 

But  thicker  and  thicker  a  hot  mist  grew, 

Shot  by  the  lightnings  through  and  through  ; 

And  muffled  growls,  like  the  growl  of  a  beast, 

Ran  along  the  sky  from  west  to  east. 

Then  the  skipper  looked  from  the  darkening  sea 
Up  to  the  dimmed  and  wading  sun  ; 

But  he  spake  like  a  brave  man  cheerily, 

4 '  Yet  there  is  time  for  our  homeward  run. " 

Veering  and  tacking,  they  backward  wore  ; 

And  just  as  a  breath  from  the  woods  ashore 

Blew  out  to  whisper  of  danger  past, 

The  wrath  of  the  storm  came  down  at  last ! 

The  skipper  hauled  at  the  heavy  sail : 

"  God  be  pur  help  !  "  he  only  cried, 
As  the  roaring  gale,  like  the  stroke  of  a  flail, 

Smote  the  boat  on  its  starboard  side. 
The  Shoalsmen  looked,  but  saw  alone 
Dark  films  of  rain-cloud  slantwise  blown, 
Wild  rocks  lit  up  by  the  lightning's  glare, 
The  strife  and  torment  of  sea  and  air. 

Goody  Cole  looked  out  from  her  door  : 
The  Isles  of  Shoals  were  drowned  and  gone, 

Scarcely  she  saw  the  Head  of  the  Boar 
Toss  the  foam  from  tusks  of  stone. 

She  clasped  her  hands  with  a  grip  of  pain, 

The  tear  on  her  cheek  was  not  of  rain ; 


"  They  are  lost ! ' '  she  muttered,  k '  boat  and  crew  ! 
Lord,  forgive  me  !  my  words  were  true  !  " 

Suddenly  seaward  swept  the  squall ; 

The  low  sun  smote  through  cloudy  rack  ; 
The  Shoals  stood  clear  in  the  light,  and  all 

The  trend  of  the  coast  lay  hard  and  black. 
But  far  and  wide  as  eye  could  reach, 
No  life  was  seen  upon  wave  or  beach  ; 
The  boat  that  went  out  at  morning  never 
Sailed  back  again  into  Hampton  River. 

I  O  mower,  lean  on  thy  bended  snath, 

Look  from  the  meadows  green  and  low  : 
The  wind  of  the  sea  is  a  waft  of  death, 
The  waves  are  singing  a  song  of  woe  ! 
By  silent  river,  by  moaning  sea, 
Long  and  vain  shall  thy  watching  be : 
j  Never  again  shall  the  sweet  voice  call, 
!  Never  the  white  hand  rise  and  fall ! 

O  Rivermouth  Rocks,  how  sad  a  sight 
Ye  saw  in  the  light  of  breaking  day  ! 
Dead  faces  looking  up  cold  and  white 

From  sand  and  sea-weed  where  they  lay. 
The  mad  old  witch- wife  wailed  and  wept, 
And  cursed  the  tide  as  it  backward  crept : 
"  Crawl  back,  crawl  back,  blue  water-snake  ! 
Leave  your  dead  for  the  hearts  that  break  !  " 

Solemn  it  was  in  that  old  day 

In  Hampton  town  and  its  log-built  church, 
Where  side  by  side  the  coffins  lay 

And  the  mourners  stood  in  aisle  and  porch. 
In  the  singing-seats  young  eyes  were  dim, 
I  The  voices  faltered  that  raised  the  hymn, 
And  Father  Dalton,  grave  and  stern, 
Sobbed  through  his  prayer  and  wept  in  turn. 

But  his  ancient  colleague  did  not  pray, 
Because  of  his  sin  at  fourscore  years  : 
He  stood  apart,  with  the  iron -gray 

Of  his  strong  brows  knitted  to  hide  his  tears. 
And  a  wretched  woman,  holding  her  breath 
In  the  awful  presence  of  sin  and  death, 
Cowered  and  shrank,  while  her  neighbors  thronged 
To  look  on  the  dead  her  shame  had  wronged. 

Apart  with  them,  like  them  forbid, 

Old  Goody  Cole  looked  drearily  round, 
!  As,  two  by  two,  with  their  faces  hid, 

The  mourners  walked  to  the  bury  ing-ground. 
She  let  the  staff  from  her  clasped  hands  fall : 
"Lord,  forgive  us  !  we  're  sinners  all !  " 
And  the  voice  of  the  old  man  answered  her: 
"Amen  !  "  said  Father  Bachiler. 

So,  as  I  sat  upon  Appledore 

In  the  calm  of  a  closing  summer  day, 

And  the  broken  lines  of  Hampton  shore 
In  purple  mist  of  cloudland  lay, 

The  Rivermouth  Rocks  their  story  told  ; 

And  waves  aglow  with  sunset  gold, 

Rising  and  breaking  in  steady  chime, 

Beat  the  rhythm  and  kept  the  time. 

And  the  sunset  paled,  and  warmed  once  more 

With  a  softer,  tenderer  after-glow  ; 
In  the  east  was  moon-rise,  with  boats  off-shore 

And  sails  in  the  distance  drifting  slow. 
The  beacon  glimmered  from  Portsmouth  bar, 
The  White  Isle  kindled  its  great  red  star ; 
And  life  and  death  in  my  old-time  lay 
Mingled  in  peace  like  the  night  and  day  ! 


"  Well !  "  said  the  Man  of  Books,  "your  story 

Is  really  not  ill  told  in  verse. 
As  the  Celt  said  of  purgatory, 

One  might  go  farther  and  fare  worse." 


218 


THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE. 


The  Reader  smiled  ;  and  once  again 
With  steadier  voice  took  up  his  strain, 
While  the  fair  singer  from  the  neighboring  tent 
Drew  near,  and  at  his  side  a  graceful  listener 
bent. 


THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE. 

WHERE  the  Great  Lake's  sunny  smiles 
Dimple  round  its  hundred  isles. 
And  the  mountain's  granite  ledge 
Cleaves  the  water  like  a  wedge, 
Ringed  about  with  smooth,  gray  stones, 
Rest  the  giant's  mighty  bones. 

Close  beside,  in  shade  and  gleam, 
Laughs  and  ripples  Melvin  stream ; 
Melvin  water,  mountain-born, 
All  fair  flowers  its  banks  adorn ; 
All  the  woodland's  voices  meet, 
Mingling  with  its  murmurs  sweet. 

Over  lowlan'ds  forest-grown, 

Over  waters  island-strown, 

Over  silver-sanded  beach, 

Leaf -locked  bay  and  misty  reach, 

Melvin  stream  and  burial-heap, 

Watch  and  ward  the  mountains  keep. 

Who  that  Titan  cromlech  fills  ? 
Forest-kaiser,  lord  o'  the  hills  ? 
Knight  who  on  the  birchen  tree 
Carved  his  savage  heraldry  ? 
Priest  o'  the  pine-wood  temples  dim, 
Prophet,  sage,  or  wizard  grim  ? 

Rugged  type  of  primal  man, 
Grim  utilitarian, 

Loving  woods  for  hunt  and  prowl, 
Lake  and  hill  for  fish  and  fowl, 
As  the  brown  bear  blind  and  dull 
To  the  grand  and  beautiful : 

Not  for  him  the  lesson  drawn 
From  the  mountains  smit  with  dawn. 
Star-rise,  moon-rise,  flowers  of  May, 
Sunset's  purple  bloom  of  day, — 
Took  his  life  no  hue  from  thence, 
Poor  amid  such  affluence  ? 

Haply  unto  hill  and  tree 
All  too  near  akin  was  he  : 
Unto  him  who  stands  afar 
Nature's  marvels  greatest  are ; 
Who  the  mountain  purple  seeks 
Must  not  climb  the  higher  peaks. 

Yet  who  knows  in  winter  tramp, 
Or  the  midnight  of  the  camp, 
What  revealings  faint  and  far, 
Stealing  down  from  moon  and  star, 
Kindled  in  that  human  clod 
Thought  of  destiny  and  God  ? 

Stateliest  forest  patriarch, 

Grand  in  robes  of  skin  and  bark, 

What  sepulchral  mysteries, 

What  weird  funeral-rites,  were  his  ? 

What  sharp  wail,  what  drear  lament, 

Back  scared  wolf  and  eagle  sent  ? 

Now,  whate'er  he  may  have  been, 
Now  he  lies  as  other  men ; 
On  his  mound  the  partridge  drums, 
There  the  noisy  blue-jay  comes  ; 
Rank  nor  name  nor  pomp  has  he 
In  the  grave's  democracy. 


Part  thy  blue  lips,  Northern  lake  ! 
Moss-grown  rocks,  your  silence  break ! 
Tell  the  tale,  thou  ancient  tree  ! 
Thou,  too,  slide-worn  Ossipee  ! 
Speak,  and  tell  us  how  and  when 
Lived  and  died  this  king  of  men ! 

Wordless  moans  the  ancient  pine ; 
Lake  and  mountain  give  no  sign  ; 
Vain  to  trace  this  ring  of  stones  ; 
Vain  the  search  of  crumbling  bones : 
Deepest  of  all  mysteries, 
And  the  saddest,  silence  is. 

Nameless,  noteless,  clay  with  clay 
Mingles  slowly  day  by  day  ; 
But  somewhere,  for  good  or  ill, 
That  dark  soul  is  living  still ; 
Somewhere  yet  that  atom's  force 
Moves  the  light-poised  universe. 

Strange  that  on  his  burial-sod 
Harebells  bloom,  and  golden-rod. 
While  the  soul's  dark  horoscope 
Holds  no  starry  sign  of  hope  ! 
Is  the  Unseen  with  sight  at  odds  ? 
Nature's  pity  more  than  God's? 

Thus  I  mused  by  Melvin' s  side, 
While  the  summer  eventide 
Made  the  woods  and  inland  sea 
And  the  mountains  mystery  ; 
And  the  hush  of  earth  and  air 
Seemed  the  pause  before  a  prayer, — 

Prayer  for  him,  for  all  who  rest, 

Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  breast, — 

Lapped  on  Christian  turf,  or  hid 

In  rock-cave  or  pyramid  : 

All  who  sleep,  as  all  who  live, 

Well  may  need  the  prayer,  "Forgive ! " 

Desert-smothered  caravan, 
Knee-deep  dust  that  once  was  man, 
Battle-trenches  ghastly  piled, 
Ocean-floors  with  white  bones  tiled, 
Crowded  tomb  and  mounded  sod, 
Dumbly  crave  that  prayer  to  God. 

O  the  generations  old 

Over  whom  no  church-bells  tolled, 

Christie ss,  lifting  up  blind  eyes 

To  the  silence  of  the  skies  ! 

For  the  innumerable  dead 

Is  my  soul  disquieted. 

Where  be  now  these  silent  hosts  ? 
Where  the  camping-ground  of  ghosts  V 
Where  the  spectral  conscripts  led 
To  the  white  tents  of  the  dead  ? 
What  strange  shore  or  chartless  sea 
Holds  the  awful  mystery  ? 

Then  the  warm  sky  stooped  to  make 
Double  sunset  in  the  lake  ; 
While  above  I  saw  with  it, 
Range  on  range,  the  mountains  lit ; 
And  the  calm  and  splendor  stole 
Like  an  answer  to  my  soul. 

Hear'st  thou,  O  of  little  faith, 
What  to  thee  the  mountain  saith, 
What  is  whispered  by  the  trees ! — 
"  Cast  on  God  thy  care  for  these  ; 
Trust  him,  if  thy  sight  be  dim  ? 
Doubt  for  them  is  doubt  of  Him. 

"Blind  must  be  their  close-shut  eyes 
Where  like  night  the  sunshine  lies, 


THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE. 


219 


Fiery -linked,  the  self -forged  chain 
Binding  ever  sin  to  pain, 
Strong  their  prison-house  of  will, 
But  without  He  waiteth  still. 

"Not  with  hatred's  undertow 
Doth  the  Love  Eternal  flow  ; 
Every  chain  that  spirits  wear 
Crumbles  in  the  breath  of  prayer  ; 
And  the  penitent's  desire 
Opens  every  gate  of  fire. 

"Still  Thy  love,  O  Christ  arisen, 
Yearns  to  reach  these  souls  in  prison ! 
Through  all  depths  of  sin  and  loss 
Drops  the  plummet  of  Thy  cross  ! 
Never  yet  abyss  was  found 
Deeper  than  that  cross  could  sound  !  " 

Therefore  well  may  Nature  keep 
Equal  fai$i  with  all  who  sleep, 
Set  her  watch  of  hills  around 
Christian  grave  and  heathen  mound, 
And  to  cairn  and  kirkyard  lend 
Summer's  flowery  dividend. 

Keep,  O  pleasant  Melvin  stream, 
Thy  sweet  laugh  in  shade  and  gleam  ! 
On  the  Indian's  grassy  tomb 
Swing,  O  flowers,  your  bells  of  bloom  ! 
Deep  below,  as  high  above, 
Sweeps  the  circle  of  God's  love. 


He  paused  and  questioned  with  his  eye 

The  hearers1  verdict  on  his  song. 
A  low  voice  asked  :  Is 't  well  to  pry 

Into  the  secrets  which  belong 
Only  to  God  ?— The  life  to  be 
Is  still  the  unguessed  mystery : 
Unsealed,  unpierced  the  cloudy  walls  remain, 
We  beat  with  dream  and  wislTthe  soundless  doors 


"  But  faith  beyond  our  sight  may  go." 

He  said  :  "  The  gracious  Fatherhood 
Can  only  know  above,  below, 

Eternal  purposes  of  good. 
From  pur  free  heritage  of  will, 
The  bitter  springs  of  pain  and  ill 
Flow  only  in  all  worlds.     The  perfect  day 
Of  God  is  shadowless,  and  love  is  love  alway." 

44  I  know,"  she  said,  "the  letter  kills ; 

That  on  our  arid  fields  of  strife 
And  heat  of  clashing  texts  distils 

The  dew  of  spirit  and  of  life. 
But,  searching  still  the  written  Word, 
I  fain  would  find,  Thus  saith  the  Lord, 
A  voucher  for  the  hope  I  also  feel 
That  sin  can  give  no  wound  beyond  love's  power 
to  heal." 

"  Pray,"  said  the  Man  of  Books,  "  give  o'er 

A  theme  too  vast  for  time  and  place. 
Go  on,  Sir  Poet,  ride  once  more 

Your  hobby  at  his  old  free  pace. 
But  let  him  keep,  with  step  discreet, 
The  solid  earth  beneath  his  feet. 
In  the  great  mystery  which  around  us  lies. 
The  wisest  is  a  fool,  the  fool  Heaven-helped  is 


The  Traveller  said  :   "If  songs  have  creeds, 
Their  choice  of  them  let  singers  make  ; 

But  Art  no  other  sanction  needs 
Than  beauty  for  its  own  fair  sake. 

It  grinds  not  in  the  mill  of  use, 

Nor  asks  for  leave,  nor  begs  excuse  ; 


It  makes  the  flexile  laws  it  deigns  to  own, 
And  gives  its  atmosphere  its  color  and  its  tone. 

u  Confess,  old  friend,  your  austere  school 

Has  left  your  fancy  little  chance  ; 
You  square  to  reason's  rigid  rule 

The  flowing  outlines  of  romance. 
With  conscience  keen  from  exercise, 
And  chronic  fear  of  compromise, 
You  check  the  free  play  of  your  rhymes,  to  clap 
A  moral  underneath,  and  spring  it  like  a  trap." 

The  sweet  voice  answered  :  "  Better  so 

Than  bolder  flights  that  know  no  check  ; 
Better  to  vise  the  bit,  than  throw 

The  reins  all  loose  on  fancy's  neck. 
The  liberal  range  of  Art  should  be 
The  breadth  of  Christian  liberty, 
Restrained  alone  by  challenge  and  alarm 
Where  its  charmed  footsteps  tread  the  border 
land  of  harm 

"Beyond  the  poet's  sweet  dream  lives 

The  eternal  epic  of  the  man. 
He  wisest  is  who  only  gives, 

True  to  himself,  the  best  he  can  ; 
Who,  drifting  in  the  winds  of  praise, 
The  inward  monitor  obeys  ; 
And,  with  the  boldness  that  confesses  fear, 
Takes  in  the  crowded  sail,  and  lets  his  conscience 
steer. 

41  Thanks  for  the  fitting  word  he  speaks, 
Nor  less  for  doubtful  word  unspoken  ; 

For  the  false  model  that  he  breaks, 
As  for  the  moulded  grace  unbroken ; 

For  what  is  missed  and  what  remains, 
finch  are  truest  gains, 


For  reverence  conscious  of  the  Eternal  eye, 
And  truth  too  fair  to  need  the  garnish  of  a  lie." 

Laughing,  the  Critic  bowed.     "I  yield 

The  point  without  another  word  ; 
Who  ever  yet  a  case  appealed 

Where  beauty's  judgment  had  been  heard  ? 
And  you,  my  good  friend,  owe  to  me 
Your  warmest  thanks  for  such  a  plea, 
As  true  withal  as  sweet.     For  my  offence 
Of  cavil,  let  her  words  be  ample  recompense." 

Across  the  sea  one  lighthouse  star, 

With  crimson  ray  that  came  and  went, 
Revolving  on  its  tower  afar, 

Looked  through  the  doorway  of  the  tent. 
While  outward,  over  sand-slopes  wet, 
The  lamp  flashed  down  its  yellow  jet 
On  the  long  wash  of  waves,  with  red  and  green 
Tangles   of  weltering  weed  through  the  white 
foam-wreaths  seen. 

"  '  Sing  while  we  may, — another  day 
May  bring  enough  of  sorrow  ' ; — thus 
Our  Traveller  in  his  own  sweet  lay, 

His  Crimean  camp-song,  hints  to  us," 
The  lady  said.     "  So  let  it  be ; 
Sing  us  a  song,"  exclaimed  all  three. 
She  smiled  :  "  I  can  but  marvel  at  your  choice 
To  hear  our  poet's  words  through  my  poor  bor 
rowed  voice." 

Her  window  opens  to  the  bay, 
On  glistening  light  or  misty  gray, 
And  there  at  dawn  and  set  of  day 

In  prayer  she  kneels  : 

"  Dear  Lord  !  "  she  saith,  "  to  many  a  home 
From  wiud  and  wave  the  wanderers  come ; 
I  only  see  the  tossing  foam 

Of  stranger  keels. 


THE  BROTHER  OF  MERCY. 


14  Blown  out  and  in  by  summer  gales, 
The  stately  ships,  with  crowded  sails, 
And  sailors  leaning  o'er  their  rails, 

Before  me  glide ; 

They  come,  they  go,  but  nevermore, 
Spice-laden  from  the  Indian  shore, 
I  see  his  swift-winged  Isidore 
The  waves  divide. 

"  O  Thou  !  with  whom  the  night  is  day 
And  one  the  near  and  far  away, 
Look  out  on  yon  gray  waste,  and  say 

Where  lingers  he. 

Alive,  perchance,  on  some  lone  beach 
Or  thirsty  isle  beyond  the  reach 
Of  man,  he  hears  the  mocking  speech 

Of  wind  and  sea. 

44  O  dread  and  cruel  deep,  reveal 
The  secret  which  thy  waves  conceal. 
And,  ye  wild  sea-birds,  hither  wheel 

And  tell  your  tale. 
Let  winds  that  tossed  his  raven  hair 
A  message  from  my  lost  one  bear, — 
Some  thought  of  me,  a  last  fond  prayer 

Or  dying  wail ! 

"Come,  with  your  dreariest  truth  shut  out 
The  fears  that  haunt  me  round  about ; 
O  God  !  I  cannot  bear  this  doubt 

That  stifles  breath. 
The  worst  is  better  than  the  dread  : 
Give  me  but  leave  to  mourn  my  dead 
Asleep  in  trust  and  hope,  instead 

Of  life  in  death  ! 

It  might  have  been  the  evening  breeze 
That  whispered  in  the  garden  trees, 
It  might  have  been  the  sound  of  seas 

That  rose  and  fell ; 
But,  with  her  heart,  if  not  her  ear, 
The  old  loved  voice  she  seemed  to  hear  : 
44 1  wait  to  meet  thee  :  be  of  cheer, 

For  all  is  well !  " 


The  sweet  voice  into  silence  went, 
A  silence  which  was  almost  pain 
As  through  it  rolled  the  long  lament, 
The  cadence  of  the  mournful  main. 
Glancing  his  written  pages  o'er, 
The  Reader  tried  his  part  once  more  ; 
Leaving  the  land  of  hackmatack  and  pine 
For  Tuscan  valleys  glad  with  olive  and  with  vine. 


THE  BROTHER  OF  MERCY. 

PIERO  LUCA,  known  of  all  the  town 
As  the  gray  porter  by  the  Pitti  wall 
Where  the  noon  shadows  of  the  gardens  fall, 
Sick  and  in  dolor,  waited  to  lay  down 
His  last  sad  burden,  and  beside  his  mat 
The  barefoot  monk  of  La  Certosa  sat. 

Unseen,    in    square    and    blossoming    garden 

drifted, 
Soft  sunset    lights   through  green  Val  d'  Arno 

sifted ; 

Unheard,  below  the  living  shuttles  shifted 
Backward  and  forth,  and  wove,  in  love  or  strife, 
In  mirth  or  pain,  the  mottled  web  of  life  : 
But  when  at  last  came  upward  from  the  street 
Tinkle  of  bell  and  tread  of  measured  feet, 
The  sick  man  started,  strove  to  rise  in  vain, 
Sinking  back  heavily  with  a  moan  of  pain. 


And  the  monk  said,  "  'Tis  but  the  Brotherhood 
Of  Mercy  going  on  some  errand  good  : 
Their  black  masks  by  the  palace-wall  I  see.1' 
Piero  answered  faintly,  "  Woe  is  me  ! 
This  day  for  the  first  time  in  forty  years 
In  vain  the  bell  hath  sounded  in  my  ears, 

ailing  me  with  my  brethren  of  the  mask, 
Beggar  and  prince  alike,  to  some  new  task 
Of  love  or  pity, — haply  from  the  street 
To  bear  a  wretch  plague-stricken,  or,  with  feet 
Hushed  to  the  quickened  ear  and  feverish  brain, 
To  tread  the  crowded  lazaretto's  floors, 
Down  the  long  twilight  of  the  corridors, 
Midst  tossing  arms  and  faces  full  of  pain. 
I  loved  the  work  :  it  was  its  own  reward. 
I  never  counted  on  it  to  offset 
My  sins,  which  are  many,  or  make  less  my  debt 
To  the  free  grace  and  mercy  of  our  Lord  ; 
But  somehow,  father,  it  has  come  to  be 
In  these  long  years  so  much  a  part,  of  me, 
I  should  not  know  myself,  if  lacking  it, 
But  with  the  work  the  worker  too  would  die, 
And  in  my  place  some  other  self  would  sit 
Joyful  or  sad, — what  matters,  if  not  I  ? 
And  now  all's  over.     Woe  is  me  !  " — uMy  son," 
The  monk  said  soothingly,  ' '  thy  work  is  done  ; 
And  no  more  as  a  servant,  but  the  guest 
Of  God  thou  enterest  thy  eternal  rest. 
No  toil,  no  tears,  no  sorrow  for  the  lost, 
Shall  mar  thy  perfect  bliss.     Thou  shalt  sit  down 
Clad  in  white  robes,  and  wear  a  golden  crown 
Forever  and  forever. " — Piero  tossed 
On  his  sick-pillow :  "  Miserable  me  ! 
I  am  too  poor  for  such  grand  company  ; 
The  crown  would  be  too  heavy  for  this  gray 
Old  head  ;  and  God  forgive  me  if  I  say  • 
It  would  be  hard  to  sit  there  night  and  day, 
Like  an  image  in  the  Tribune,  doing  naught 
With   these   hard  hands,   that  all  my  life   have 

wrought, 

Not  for  bread  only,  but  for  pity's  sake. 
I  'in  dull  at  prayers  :  I  could  not  keep  awake, 
Counting  my  beads.     Mine  's  but  a  crazy  head, 
Scarce  worth  the  saving,  if  all  else  be  dead. 
And  if  one  goes  to  heaven  without  a  heart, 
God  knows  he  leaves  behind  his  better  part. 
I  love  my  fellow-men  :  the  worst  I  know 
I  would  do  good  to.     Will  death  change  me  so 
That  I  shall  sit  among  the  lazy  saints, 
Turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  sore  complaints 
Of  souls  that  suffer  ?     Why,  I  never  yet 
Left  a  poor  dog  in  the  strada  hard  beset, 
Or  ass  o'erladen  !     Must  I  rate  man  less 
Than  dog  or  ass,  in  holy  selfishness  ? 
Methinks  (Lord,  pardon,  if  the  thought  be  sin  ! ) 
The  world  of  pain  were  better,  if  therein 
One's  heart  might  still  be  human,  and  desires 
Of  natural  pity  drop  upon  its  fires 
Some  cooling  tears." 

Thereat  the  pale  monk  crossed 
His  brow,  and,  muttering,  "Madman!  thou  art 

lost !  " 

Took  up  his  pyx  and  fled  ;  and,  left  alone. 
The  sick  man  closed  his  eyes  with  a  great  groan 
That  sank  into  a  prayer,  "  Thy  will  be  done  !  " 

Then  was  he  made  aware,  by  soul  or  ear. 
Of  somewhat  pure  and  holy  bending  o'er  him, 
And  of  a  voice  like  that  of  her  who  bore  him, 
Tender  and  most  compassionate  :   "Never  fear  ! 
I  For  heaven  is  love,  as  God  himself  is  love  ; 
j  Thy  work  below  shall  be  thy  work  above." 
!  And  when  he  looked,  lo  !  in  the  stern  monk's  place 
He  saw  the  shining  of  an  angel's  face  ! 


The  Traveller  broke  the  pause.     "  I  've  seen 
The  Brothers  down  the  long  street  steal, 

Black,  .silent,  masked,  the  crowd  between, 
And  felt  to  doff  my  hat  and  kneel 


THE  CHANGELING. 


And  the  cloud  of  her  soul  was  lifted." 


With  heart,  if  not  with  knee,  in  prayer, 

For  blessings  on  their  pious  care." 

The  Reader  wiped    his  glasses :    "  Friends    of 

mine, 
We'll    try   our  home-brewed  next,   instead    of 

foreign  wine." 


THE  CHANGELING. 

FOR  the  fairest  maid  in  Hampton 

They  needed  not  to  search, 
Who  saw  young  Anna  Favor 

Come  walking  into  church, — 

Or  bringing  from  the  meadows, 

At  set  of  harvest-day, 
The  frolic  of  the  blackbirds, 

The  sweetness  of  the  hay. 

Now  the  weariest  of  all  mothers, 
The  saddest  two-years  bride, 

She  scowls  in  the  face  of  her  husband, 
And  spurns  her  child  aside. 

'"  Rake  out  the  red  coals,  goodman, — 
For  there  the  child  shall  lie, 

Till  the  black  witch  comes  to  fetch  her 
And  both  up  chimney  fly. 

"•'It's  never  my  own  little  daughter, 
It 's  never  my  own,"  she  said  ; 

*'  The  witches  have  stolen  my  Anna, 
And  left  me  an  imp  instead. 

"  O,  fair  and  sweet  was  my  baby, 
Blue  eyes,  and  hair  of  gold  ; 

But  this  is  ugly  and  wrinkled, 
Cross,  and  cunning,  and  old. 

' '  I  hate  the  touch  of  her  fingers, 
I  hate  the  feel  of  her  skin  ; 


It 's  not  the  milk  from  my  bosom, 
But  my  blood,  that  she  sucks  in. 

"  My  face  grows  sharp  with  the  torment ; 

Look !  my  arms  are  skin  and  bone  I — 
Rake  open  the  red  coals,  goodman, 

And  the  witch  shall  have  her  own. 

"  She  '11  come  when  she  hears  it  crying, 
In  the  shape  of  an  owl  or  bat, 

And  she  '11  bring  us  our  darling  Anna 
In  place  of  her  screeching  brat. " 

Then  the  goodman,  Ezra  Dalton, 
Laid  his  hand  upon  her  head  : 

"  Thy  sorrow  is  great,  O  woman  ! 
I  sorrow  with  thee,"  he  said. 

"  The  paths  to  trouble  are  many, 

And  never  but  one  sure  way 
Leads  out  to  the  light  beyond  it : 

My  poor  wife,  let  us  pray." 

Then  he  said  to  the  great  All-Father, 
"  Thy  daughter  is  weak  and  blind ; 

Let  her  sight  come  back,  and  clothe  her 
Once  more  in  her  right  mind. 

"Lead  her  out  of  this  evil  shadow, 

Out  of  these  fancies  wild  ; 
Let  the  holy  love  of  the  mother 

Turn  again  to  her  child. 

"  Make  her  lips  like  the  lips  of  Mary 

Kissing  her  blessed  Son  ; 
Let  her  hands,  like  the  hands  of  Jesus, 

Rest  on  her  little  one. 

"  Comfort  the  soul  of  thy  handmaid 

Open  her  prison-door, 
And  thine  shall  be  all  the  glory 

And  praise  for  evermore." 


222 


THE  MAID  OF  ATTITASH. 


Then  into  the  face  of  its  mother 
The  baby  looked  up  and  smiled ; 

And  the  cloud  of  her  soul  was  lifted, 
And  she  knew  her  little  child. 

A  beam  of  the  slant  west  sunshine 
Made  the  wan  face  almost  fair, 

Lit  the  blue  eyes'  patient  wonder, 
And  the  rings  of  pale  gold  hair. 

She  kissed  it  on  lip  and  forehead, 
She  kissed  it  on  cheek  and  chin, 

And  she  bared  her  snow-white  bosom 
To  the  lips  so  pale  and  thin. 

O,  fair  on  her  bridal  morning 

Was  the  maid  who  blushed  and  smiled, 
But  fairer  to  Ezra  Dalton 

Looked  the  mother  of  his  child. 

With  more  than  a  lover's  fondness 
He  stooped  to  her  worn  young  face, 

And  the  nursing  child  and  the  mother 
He  folded  in  one  embrace. 

44  Blessed  be  God  !  "  he  murmured. 

"Blessed  be  God  !  "  she  said  ; 
41  For  I  see,  who  once  was  blinded, — 

I  live,  who  once  was  dead. 

4 4  Now  mount  and  ride,  my  goodman, 
As  thou  Ipvest  thy  own  soul ! 

Woe 's  me,  if  my  wicked  fancies 
Be  the  death  of  Goody  Cole  !  " 

His  horse  he  saddled  and  bridled, 
And  into  the  night  rode  he, — 

Now  through  the  great  black  woodland, 
Now  by  the  white-beached  sea. 

He  rode  through  the  silent  clearings, 

He  came  to  the  ferry  wide, 
And  thrice  he  called  to  the  boatman 

Asleep  on  the  other  side. 

He  set  Irs  horse  to  the  river, 

He  swam  to  Newbury  town, 
And  he  called  up  Justice  Sewall 

In  his  nightcap  and  his  gown. 

And  the  grave  and  worshipful  justice 
(Upon  whose  soul  be  peace  ! ) 

Set  his  name  to  the  jailer's  warrant 
For  Goodwife  Cole's  release. 

Then  through  the  night  the  hoof -beats 

Went  sounding  like  a  flail ; 
And  Goody  Cole  at  cockcrow 

Came  forth  from  Ipswich  jail. 


44  Here  is  a  rhyme  : — I  hardly  dare 

To  venture  on  its  theme  worn  out ; 
What  seems  so  sweet  by  Doon  and  Ayr 

Sounds  simple  silly  hereabout ; 
And  pipes  by  lips  Arcadian  blown 
Are  only  tin  horns  at  our  own. 
Yet  still  the  muse  of  pastoral  walks  with  us, 
While  Hosea  Biglow  sings,  our  new  Theocritus." 


THE  MAIDS  OF  ATTITASH. 

IN  sky  and  wave  the  white  clouds  swam, 
And  the  blue  hills  of  Nottingham 

Through  gaps  of  leafy  green 

Across  the  lake  were  seen, — 


When,  in  the  shadow  of  the  ash 
That  dreams  its  dream  in  Attitash, 

In  the  warm  summer  weather, 

Two  maidens  sat  together. 

They  sat  and  watched  an  idle  mood 
The  gleam  and  shade  of  lake  and  wood,— 

The  beach  the  keen  light  smote, 

The  white  sail  of  a  boat, — 

Swan  flocks  of  lilies  shoreward  lying, 
In  sweetness,  not  in  music,  dying, — 

Hardback,  and  virgin's-bower. 

And  white-spiked  clethra-flower. 

With  careless  ears  they  heard  the  plash 
And  breezy  wash  of  Attitash, 

The  wood-bird's  plaintive  cry, 

The  locust's  sharp  reply. 

And  teased  the  while,  with  playful  hand, 
The  shaggy  dog  of  Newfoundland, 

Whose  uncouth  frolic  spilled 

Their  baskets  berry-filled. 

Then  one,  the  beauty  of  whose  eyes 

Was  evermore  a  great  surprise, 
Tossed  back  her  queenly  head, 
And,  lightly  laughing,  said, — 

"  No  bridegroom's  hand  be  mine  to  hold 
That  is  not  lined  with  yellow  gold  ; 

I  tread  no  cottage-floor ; 

I  own  no  lover  poor. 

4 '  My  love  must  come  on  silken  wings, 
With  bridal  lights  of  diamond  rings, — 

Not  foul  with  kitchen  smirch, 

With  tallow-dip  for  torch." 

The  other,  on  whose  modest  head 
Was  lesser  dower  of  beauty  shed, 

With  look  for  home-hearths  meet, 

And  voice  exceeding  sweet, 

Answered, — "  We  will  not  rivals  be ; 

Take  thou  the  gold,  leave  love  to  me ; 
Mine  be  the  cottage  small. 
And  thine  the  rich  man's  hall. 

44 1  know,  indeed,  that  wealth  is  good ; 

But  lowly  roof  and  simple  food, 
With  love  that  hath  no  doubt, 
Are  more  than  gold  without." 

Hard  by  a  farmer  hale  and  young 
His  cradle  in  the  rye-field  swung, 
Tracking  the  yellow  plain 
With  windrows  of  ripe  grain. 

And  still,  whene'er  he  paused  to  whet 
His  scythe,  the  sidelong  glance  he  met 

Of  large  dark  eyes,  where  strove 

False  pride  and  secret  love. 

Be  strong,  young  mower  of  the  grain ; 
That  love  shall  overmatch  disdain, 

Its  instincts  soon  or  late 

The  heart  shall  vindicate. 

In  blouse  of  gray,  with  fishing-rod, 
Half  screened  by  leaves,  a  stranger  trod 

The  margin  of  the  pond, 

Watching  the  group  beyond. 

The  supreme  hours  unnoted  come ; 

Unfelt  the  turning  tides  of  doom  ; 
And  so  the  maids  laughed  on, 
Nor  dreamed  what  Fate  had  done, — 


KALLUNDBORG  CHURCH. 


223 


Nor  knew  the  step  was  Destiny's 
That  rustled  in  the  birchen  trees, 

As,  with  their  lives  forecast, 

Fisher  and  mower  passed. 

Erelong  by  lake  and  rivulet  side 
The  summer  roses  paled  and  died, 

And  Autumn's  fingers  shed 

The  maple's  leaves  of  red. 

Through  the  long  gold-hazed  afternoon, 
Alone,  but  for  the  diving  loon, 

The  partridge  in  the  brake, 

The  black  duck  on  the  lake, 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  ash 
Sat  man  and  maid  by  Attitash  ; 

And  earth  and  air  made  room 

For  human  hearts  to  bloom. 

Soft  spread  the  carpets  of  the  sod, 
And  scarlet-oak  and  golden-rod 

With  blushes  and  with  smiles 

Lit  up  the  forest  aisles. 

The  mellow  light  the  lake  aslant, 
The  pebbled  margin's  ripple-chant 

Attempered  and  low-toned, 

The  tender  mystery  owned. 

And  through  the  dream  the  lovers  dreamed 
Sweet  sounds  stole  in  and  soft  lights  streamed ; 

The  sunshine  seemed  to  bless, 

The  air  was  a  caress. 

Not  she  who  lightly  laughed  is  there, 
With  scornful  toss  of  midnight  hair, 

Her  dark,  disdainful  eyes, 

And  proud  lip  worldly-wise. 

Her  haughty  vow  is  still  unsaid, 
But  all  she  dreamed  and  coveted 

Wears,  half  to  her  surprise, 

The  youthful  farmer's  guise  ! 

With  more  than  all  her  old-time  pride 
She  walks  the  rye-field  at  his  side, 

Careless  of  cot  or  hall, 

Since  love  transfigures  all. 

Rich  beyond  dreams,  the  vantage-ground 
Of  life  is  gained  ;  her  hands  have  found 

The  talisman  of  old 

That  changes  all  to  gold. 

While  she  who  could  for  love  dispense 
With  all  its  glittering  accidents, 

And  trust  her  heart  alone, 

Finds  love  and  gold  her  own. 

What  wealth  can  buy  or  aft  can  build 
Awaits  her  ;  but  her  cup  is  filled 

Even  now  unto  the  brim ; 

Her  world  is  love  and  him  ! 


The  while  he  heard,  the  Book-man  drew 

A  length  of  make-believing  face, 
With  smothered  mischief  laughing  through  : 

"  Why,  you  shall  sit  in  Ramsay's  place, 
And,  with  his  Gentle  Shepherd,  keep 
On  Yankee  hills  immortal  sheep, 
While  lovelorn  swains  and  maids  the  seas  beyond 
Hold    dreamy   tryst    around   your   huckleberry- 
pond." 

The  Traveller  laughed  ;  "Sir  Galahad 
Singing  of  love  the  Trouvere's  lay  ! 

How  should  he  know  the  blindfold  lad 

From  one  of  Vulcan's  forge-boys?" — "  Nay, 


He  better  sees  who  stands  outside 
Than  they  who  in  procession  ride," 
The  Reader  answered :  "  selectmen  and  squire 
Miss,  while  they  make,  the  show  that  wayside 
folks  admire. 

"  Here  is  a  wild  tale  of  the  North, 

Our  travelled  friend  will  own  as  one 
Fit  for  a  Norland  Christmas  hearth 

And  lips  of  Christian  Andersen. 
They  tell  it  in  the  valleys  green 
Of  the  fair  island  he  has  seen, 
Low  lying  off  the  pleasant  Swedish  shore, 
Washed  by  the  Baltic  Sea,  and  watched  by  Elsi- 
nore." 


KALLUNDBORG    CHURCH. 

"  Tie  fetille,  barn  min  ! 
Imorgen  kommer  Fin, 
Fa'er  din, 

Og  gi'er  dig  Esbern  Snares  bine  og  hjerte  at  lege  med ! " 

Zealand  Rhyme. 

"  BUILD  at  Kallundborg  by  the  sea 
A  church  as  stately  as  church  may  be, 
And  there  shalt  thou  wed  my  daughter  fair," 
Said  the  Lord  of  Nesvek  to  Esbern  Snare. 

And  the  Baron  laughed.     But  Esbern  said, 
"  Though  I  lose  my  soul,  I  will  Helva  wed  ! " 
And  oft'  he  strode,  in  his  pride  of  will, 
To  the  Troll  who  dwelt  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

"  Build,  O  Troll,  a  church  for  me 
At  Kallundborg  by  the  mighty  sea  ; 
Build  it  stately,  and  build  it  fair, 
Build  it  quickly,"  said  Esbern  Snare. 

But  the  sly  Dwarf  said,  "No  work  is  wrought 
By  Trolls  of  the  Hills,  O  man,  for  naught. 
What  wilt  thou  give  for  thy  church  so  fair '( ' ' 
u  Set  thy  own  price,"  quoth  Esbern  Snare. 

"  When  Kallundborg  church  is  builded  well, 
Thou  must  the  name  of  its  builder  tell, 
Or  thy  heart  and  thy  eyes  must  be  my  boon." 
"  Build,"  said  Esbern,  "  and  build  it  soon." 

By  night  and  by  day  the  Troll  wrought  on ; 
He  hewed  the  timbers,  he  piled  the  stone  ; 
But  day  by  day,  as  the  walls  rose  fair, 
Darker  and  sadder  grew  Esbern  Snare. 

He  listened  by  night,  he  watched  by  day, 
He  sought  and  thought,  but  he  dared  not  pray ; 
In  vain  he  called  on  the  Elle-maids  shy, 
And  the  Neck  and  the  Nis  gave  no  reply. 

Of  his  evil  bargain  far  and  wide 
A  rumor  ran  through  the  country-side  ; 
And  Helva  of  Nesvek,  young  and  fair, 
Prayed  for  the  soul  of  Esbern  Snare. 

And  now  the  church  was  wellnigh  done  ; 
One  pillar  it  lacked,  and  one  alone ; 
And  the  grim  Troll  muttered,  "  Fool  thou  art ! 
To-morrow  gives  me  thy  eyes  and  heart !  " 

By  Kallundborg  in  black  despair, 
Through  wood  and  meadow,  walked  Esbern  Snare, 
Till,  worn  and  weary,  the  strong  man  sank 
Under  the  birches  on  Ulshoi  bank. 

At  his  last  day's  work  he  heard  the  Troll 
Hammer  and  delve  in  the  quarry's  hole  ; 
Before  him  the  church  stood  large  and  fair  : 
"  I  have  builded  my  tomb,"  said  Esbern  Suare. 


224 


THE  DEAD  SHIP  OF  HARPSWELL. 


And  he  closed  his  eyes  the  sight  to  hide, 
When  he  heard  a  light  step  at  his  side  : 
"  O  Esbern  Snare !  "  a  sweet  voice  said, 
"Would  I  might  die  now  in  thy  stead  !  " 

With  a  grasp  by  love  and  by  fear  made  strong, 
He  held  her  fast,  and  he  held  her  long  ; 
With  the  beating  heart  of  a  bird  afeard, 
She  hid  her  face  in  his  flame-red  beard. 

" 0  love  !  "  he  cried,  "  let  me  look  to-day 
In  thine  eyes  ere  mine  are  plucked  away"; 
Let  me  hold  thee  close,  let  me  feel  thy  heart 
Ere  mine  by  the  Troll  is  torn  apart ! 

"  I  sinned,  O  Helva,  for  love  of  thee  ! 
Pray  that  the  Lord  Christ  pardon  me  !  " 
But  fast  as  she  prayed,  and  faster  still 
Hammered  the  Troll  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

He  knew,  as  he  wrought,  that  a  loving  heart 

Was  somehow  baffling  his  evil  art ; 

For  more  than  spell  of  Elf  or  Troll 

Is  a  maiden's  prayer  for  her  lover's  soul. 

And  Esbern  listened,  and  caught  the  sound 
Of  a  Troll-wife  singing  underground : 
"  To-morrow  comes  Fine,  father  thine  : 
Lie  still  and  hush  thee,  baby  mine  ! 

*4Lie  still,  my  darling!  next  sunrise 

Thou 'It    play   with  Esbern    Snare's   heart  and 

eyes ! * 

"  Ho  !  ho !  "  quoth  Esbern,  "  is  that  your  game  ? 
Thanks  to  the  Troll-wife,  I  know  his  name  !  " 

The  Troll  he  heard  him,  and  hurried  on 
To  Kallundborg  church  with  the  lacking  stone. 
"Too  late,  Gaffer  Fine  !  "  cried  Esbern  Snare  ; 
And  Troll  and  pillar  vanished  in  air  ! 

That  night  the  harvesters  heard  the  sound 
Of  a  woman  sobbing  underground, 
And  the  voice  of  the  Hill -Troll  loud  with  blame 
Of  the  careless  singer  who  told  his  name. 

Of  the  Troll  of  the  Church  they  sing  the  rune 
By  the  Northern  Sea  in  the  harvest  moon  ; 
And  the  fishers  of  Zealand  hear  him  still 
Scolding  his  wife  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

And  seaward  over  its  groves  of  birch 
Still  looks  the  tower  of  Kallundborg  church, 
Where,  first  at  its  altar,  a  wedded  pair, 
Stood  Helva  of  Nesvek  and  Esbern  Snare ! 


"What,"  asked  the  Traveller,  "would  our  sires, 

The  old  Norse  story-tellers,  say, 
Of  sun-graved  pictures,  ocean  wires, 

And  smoking  steamboats  of  to-day  ? 
And  this,  O  lady,  by  your  leave, 
Recalls  your  song  of  yester  eve  : 
Pray,  let  us  have  that  Cable-hymn  once  more." 
"Hear,  hear!"  the  Book-man  cried,  "the  lady 
has  the  floor. 

"  These  noisy  waves  below  perhaps 

To  such  a  strain  will  lend  their  ear, 
With  softer  voice  and  lighter  lapse 

Come  stealing  up  the  sands  to  hear, 
And  what  they  once  refused  to  do 
For  old  King  Knut  accord  to  you. 
Nay,  even  the  fishes  shall  your  listeners  be, 
As  once,  the  legend  runs,  they  heard  St.  Anthony." 

O  lonely  bay  of  Trinity, 

O  dreary  shores,  give  ear  ! 
Lean  down  unto  the  white-lipped  sea 

The  voice  of  God  to  hear  ! 


From  world  to  world  his  couriers  fly, 
Thought  winged  and  shod  with  fire  ; 

The  angel  of  His  stormy  sky 
Rides  down  the  sunken  wire. 

What  saith  the  herald  of  the  Lord  ? 

"  The  world's  long  strife  is  done  ; 
Close  wedded  by  that  mystic  cord, 

Its  continents  are  one. 

"  And  one  in  heart,  as  one  in  blood, 

Shall  all  her  peoples  be  ; 
The  hands  of  human  brotherhood 

Are  clasped  beneath  the  sea. 

"  Through  Orient  seas,  o'er  Afric's  plain 

And  Asian  mountains  borne, 
The  vigor  of  the  Northern  brain 

Shall  nerve  the  world  outworn. 

' '  From  clime  to  clime,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Shall  thrill  the  magic  thread  ; 
The  new  Prometheus  steals  once  more 

The  fire  that  wakes  the  dead." 

Throb  on,  strong  pulse  of  thunder  !  beat 
From  answering  beach  to  beach  ; 

Fuse  nations  in  thy  kindly  heat, 
And  melt  the  chains  of  each  ! 

Wild  terror  of  the  sky  above, 

Glide  tamed  and  dumb  below  ! 
Bear  gently,  Ocean's  carrier-dove, 

Thy  errands  to  and  fro. 

Weave  on,  swift  shuttle  of  the  Lord, 

Beneath  the  deep  so  far, 
The  bridal  robe  of  earth's  accord, 

The  funeral  shroud  of  war  ! 

For  lo  !  the  fall  of  Ocean's  wall 
Space  mocked  and  time  outrun ; 

And  round  the  world  the  thought  of  all 
Is  as  the  thought  of  one  ! 

The  poles  unite,  the  zones  agree, 

The  tongues  of  striving  cease ; 
As  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee 

The  Christ  is  whispering,  Peace  ! 


"  Glad  prophecy  !   to  this  at  last," 

The  Reader  said,  "  shall  all  things  con:o. 
Forgotten  be  the  bugle's  blast, 

And  battle-music  of  the  drum. 
A  little  while  the  world  may  run 
Its  old  mad  way,  with  needle-gun 
And  iron-clad,  but  truth,  at  last,  shall  reign  : 
The  cradle-song   of   Christ  was  never   sung  in 
vain  ! " 

Shifting  his  scattered  papers,  "Here," 

He  said,  as  died  the  faint  applause, 
"Is  something  that  I  found  last  year 
Down  on  the  island  known  as  Orr's. 
I  had  it  from  a  fair-haired  girl 
Who,  oddly,  bore  the  name  of  Pearl, 
r As  if  by  some  dull  freak  of  circumstance, ) 
Classic,  or  wellnigh   so,  in  Harriet  Stowe's  ro 
mance." 


THE  DEAD  SHIP  OF  HARPSWELL. 

WHAT  flecks  the  outer  gray  beyond 

The  sundown's  golden  trail  ? 
The  white  flash  of  a  sea-bird's  wing, 

Or  gleam  of  slanting  sail  ? 


THE  PALATINE. 


225 


Let  young  eyes  watch  from  Neck  and  Point, 

And  sea- worn  elders  pray, — 
The  ghost  of  what  was  once  a  ship 

Is  sailing  up  the  bay  ! 

From  gray  sea-fog,  from  icy  drift, 

From  peril  and  from  pain, 
The  home-bound  fisher  greets  thy  lights, 

O  hundred-harbored  Maine ! 
But  many  a  keel  shall  seaward  turn, 

And  many  a  sail  outstand, 
When,  tall  and  white,  the  Dead  Ship  looms 

Against  the  dusk  of  land. 

She  rounds  the  headland's  bristling  pines  ; 

She  threads  the  isle-set  bay  ; 
No  spur  of  breeze  can  speed  her  on, 

Nor  ebb  of  tide  delay. 
Old  men  still  walk  the  Isle  of  Orr 

Who  tell  her  date  and  name, 
Old  shipwrights  sit  in  Freeport  yards 

Who  hewed  her  oaken  frame. 

What  weary  doom  of  baffled  quest, 

Thou  sad  sea-ghost,  is  thine  ? 
What  makes  thee  in  the  haunts  of  home 

A  wonder  and  a  sign  ? 
No  foot  is  on  thy  silent  deck  V 

Upon  thy  helm  no  hand  ; 
No  ripple  hath  the  soundless  wind 

That  smites  thee  from  the  land  ! 

For  never  comes  the  ship  to  port, 

Howe'er  the  breeze  may  be  ; 
Just  when  she  nears  the  waiting  shore 

She  drifts  again  to  sea. 
No  tack  of  sail,  nor  turn  of  helm, 

Nor  sheer  of  veering  side  ; 
Stern- fore  she  drives  to  sea  and  night, 

Against  the  wind  and  tide. 

In  vain  o'er  Harpswell  Neck  the  star 

Of  evening  guides  her  in ; 
In  vain  for  her  the  lamps  are  lit 

Within  thy  tower,  Seguin  ! 
In  vain  the  harbor- boat  shall  hail, 

In  vain  the  pilot  call ; 
No  hand  shall  reef  her  spectral  sail, 

Or  let  her  anchor  fall. 

Shake,  brown  old  wives,  with  dreary  joy, 

Your  gray-head  hints  of  ill ; 
And,  over  sick-beds  whispering  low, 

Your  prophecies  fulfil. 
Some  home  amid  yon  birchen  trees 

Shall  drape  its  door  with  woe  ; 
And  slowly  where  the  Dead  Ship  sails, 

The  burial  boat  shall  row  ! 

From  Wolf  Neck  and  from  Flying  Point, 

From  island  and  from  main, 
From  sheltered  cove  and  tided  creek, 

Shall  glide  the  funeral  train. 
The  dead-boat  with  the  bearers  four, 

The  mourners  at  her  stern, — 
And  one  shall  go  the  silent  way 

Who  shall  no  more  return  ! 

And  men  shall  sigh,  and  women  weep, 

Whose  dear  ones  pale  and  pine, 
And  sadly  over  sunset  seas 

Await  the  ghostly  sign. 
They  know  not  that  its  sails  are  filled 

By  pity's  tender  breath, 
Nor  see  the  Angel  at  the  helm 

Who  steers  the  Ship  of  Death  ! 


"Chill  as  a  down-east  breeze  should  be," 
The  Book -man  said.     "A  ghostly  touch 

15 


The  legend  has.     I'm  glad  to  see 

Your  flying  Yankee  beat  the  Dutch." 
' '  Well,  here  is  something  of  the  sort 

Which  one  midsummer  day  I  caught 
In  Narragansett  Bay,  for  lack  of  fish." 
"We  wait,"  the  Traveller  said;  "serve  hot  or 
cold  your  dish. " 


THE  PALATINE, 

LEAGUES  north,  as  fly  the  gull  and  auk, 
Point  Judith  watches  with  eye  of  hawk  ; 
Leagues  south,  thy  beacon  flames,  Montauk  ! 

Lonely  and  wind-shorn,  wood-forsaken, 
With  never  a  tree  for  Spring  to  waken, 
For  tryst  of  lovers  or  farewells  taken, 

Circled  by  waters  that  never  freeze, 
Beaten  by  billow  and  swept  by  breeze, 
Lieth  the  island  of  Manisees, 

Set  at  the  mouth  of  the  Sound  to  hotld 
The  coast  lights  up  on  its  turret  old, 
Yellow  with  moss  and  sea-fog  mould. 

Dreary  the  land  when  gust  and  sleet 
At  its  doors  and  windows  howl  and  beat. 
And  Winter  laughs  at  its  fires  of  peat ! 

But  in  summer  time,  when  pool  and  pond, 

Held  in  the  laps  of  valley  fond, 

Are  blue  as  the  glimpses  of  sea  beyond  ; 

When  the  hills  are  sweet  with  brier-rose, 
And,  hid  in  the  warm,  soft  dells,  unclose 
Flowers  the  mainland  rarely  knows ; 

When  boats  to  their  morning  fishing  go, 
And,  held  to  the  wind  and  slanting  low, 
Whitening  and  darkening  the  small  sails  show, — 

Then  is  that  lonely  island  fair ; 

And  the  pale  health-seeker  findeth  there 

The  wine  of  life  in  its  pleasant  air. 

No  greener  valleys  the  sun  invite, 

On  smoother  beaches  no  seaTbirds  light, 

No  blue  waves  shatter  to  foam  more  white ! 

There,  circling  ever  their  narrow  range, 

Quaint  tradition  and  legend  strange 

Live  on  unchallenged,  and  know  no  change. 

Old  wives  spinning  their  webs  of  tow, 
Or  rocking  weirdly  to  and  fro 
In  and  out  the  peat's  dull  glow, 

And  old  men  mending  their  nets  of  twine, 
Talk  together  of  dream  and  sign, 
Talk  of  the  lost  ship  Palatine,— 

The  ship  that,  a  hundred  years  before, 
Freighted  deep  with  its  goodly  store, 
In  the  gales  of  the  equinox  went  ashore. 

The  eager  islanders  one  by  one 

Counted  the  shots  of  her  signal  gun, 

And  heard  the  crash  when  she  drove  right  on  ! 

Into  the  teeth  of  death  she  sped : 
(May  God  forgive  the  hands  that  fed 
The  false  lights  over  the  rocky  Head  !) 

O  men  and  brothers  !  what  sights  were  there  ! 
White  upturned  faces,  hands  stretched  in  prayer! 
Where  waves  had  pity,  could  ye  not  spare  V 


ABRAHAM  DAVENPORT. 


Down  swooped  the  wreckers,  like  birds  of  prey 
Tearing  the  heart  of  the  ship  away, 
And  the  dead  had  never  a  word  to  say. 

And  then,  with  ghastly  shimmer  and  shine 
Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine, 
They  burned  the  wreck  of  the  Palatine. 

In  their  cruel  hearts,  as  they  homeward  sped, 
liThe  sea  and  the  rocks  are  dumb,"  they  said  : 
"  There  '11  be  no  reckoning  with  the  dead." 

But  the  year  went  round,  and  when  once  more 
Along  their  foam-white  curves  of  shore 
They  heard  the  line-storm  rave  and  roar, 

Behold  !  again,  with  shimmer  and  shine, 
Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine, 
The  flaming  wreck  of  the  Palatine  ! 

So,  haply  in  fitter  words  than  these, 
Mending  their  nets  on  their  patient  knees 
They  tell  the  legend  of  Manisees. 

Nor  looks  noV  tones  a  doubt  betray  ; 

"  It  is  known  to  us  all,"  they  quietly  say  ; 

"  We  too  have  seen  it  in  our  day." 

Is  there,  then,  no  death  for  a  word  once  spoken  ? 
Was  never  a  deed  but  left  its  token 
Written  on  tables  never  broken  ? 

Do  the  elements  subtle  reflections  give  ? 
Do  pictures  of  all  the  ages  live 
On  Nature's  infinite  negative, 

Which,  half  in  sport,  in  malice  half. 

She  shows  at  times,  with  shudder  or  laugh, 

Phantom  and  shadow  in  photograph  V 

For  still,  on  many  a  moonless  night, 

From  Kingston  Head  and  from  Montauk  light 

The  spectre  kindles  and  burns  in  sight. 

Now  low  and  dim,  now  clear  and  higher, 
Leaps  up  the  terrible  Ghost  of  Fire, 
Then,  slowly  sinking,  the  flames  expire. 

And  the  wise  Sound  skippers,  though  skies  be  fine, 
Reef  their  sails  when  they  see  the  sign 
Of  the  blazing  wreck  of  the  Palatine  ! 


u  A  fitter  tale  to  scream  than  sing," 

The  Book-man  said.     "  Well,  fancy,  then," 
The  Reader  answered,  u  on  the  wing 

The  sea-birds  shriek  it,  not  for  men, 
But  in  the  ear  of  wave  and  breeze  !  " 
The  Traveller  mused  :  "  Your  Manisees 
Is  fairy-land  :  off  Narragansett  shore 
Who  ever  saw  the  isle  or  heard  its  name  before  ? 

"'T  is  some  strange  land  of  Flyaway, 

Whose  dreamy  shore  the  ship  beguiles, 
St.  Brandan's  in  its  sea-mist  gray, 

Or  sunset  loom  of  Fortunate  Isles  !  " 
u  No  ghost,  but  solid  turf  and  rock 
Is  the  good  island  known  as  Block," 
The  Reader  said.     "  For  beauty  and  for  ease 
I  chose  its  Indian  name,  soft-flowing  Manisees  ! 

' '  But  let  it  pass  ;  here  is  a  bit 
Of  unrhymed  story,  with  a  hint 

Of  the  old  preaching  mood  in  it, 
The  sort  of  sidelong  moral  squint 


Our  friend  objects  to,  which  has  grown, 

I  fear,  a  habit  of  my  own. 

'T  was  written  when  the  Asian  plague  drew  near. 
And  the  land  held  its  breath  and  paled  with  sud 
den  fear." 


ABRAHAM   DAVENPORT. 

'  IN  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside 
|  With  breeches  and  cocked  hats)  the  people  sent 
Their  wisest  men  to  make  the  public  laws. 
And  so,   from  a  brown   homestead,    where  the 

Sound 

Drinks  the  small  tribute  of  the  Mianas, 
!  Waved  over  by  the  woods  of  Rippowams, 
And  hallowed  by  pure  lives  and  tranquil  deaths, 
Stamford  sent  up  to  the  councils  of  the  State 
Wisdom  and  grace  in  Abraham  Davenport. 

'T  was  on  a  May-day  of  the  far  old  year 
Seventeen  hundred  eighty,  that  there  fell 
I  Over  the  bloom  and  sweet  life  of  the  Spring, 
i  Over  the  fresh  earth  and  the  heaven  of  noon, 
1  A  horror  of  great  darkness,  like  the  night 
In  day  of  which  the  Norland  sagas  tell,— 
The  Twilight  of  the  Gods.     The  low-hung  sky 
Was    black  with  ominous  clouds,  save  where  its 

rim 
Was  fringed  with  a  dull  glow,  like  that  which 

climbs 

The  crater's  sides  from  the  red  hell  below. 
Birds  ceased  to  sing,  and  all  the  barn-yard  fowls 
Roosted  ;  the  cattle  at  the  pasture  bars 
Lowed,  and  looked  homeward  ;  bats  on  leathern 

wings 

Flitted  abroad  ;  the  sounds  of  labor  died  ; 
Men  prayed,   and  women  wept ;   all  ears  grew 

sharp 

]  To  hear  the  doom-blast  of  the  trumpet  shatter 
The  black  ^ky,  that  the  dreadful  face  of  Christ 
Might  look  from  the  rent  clouds,  not  as  he  looked 
A  loving  guest  at  Bethany,  but  stern 
As  Justice  and  inexorable  Law. 

Meanwhile    in  the  old  State   House,    dim  as 

ghosts, 

Sat  the  lawgivers  of  Connecticut, 
Trembling  beneath  their  legislative  robes. 
11  It  is  the  Lord's  Great  Day  !     Let  us  adjourn," 
Some  said ;  and  then,  as  if  with  one  accord, 
All  eyes  were  turned  to  Abraham  Davenport. 
He  rose,  slow  cleaving  with  his  steady  voice 
The  intolerable  hush.     "  This  well  may  be 
The  Day  of  Judgment  which  the  world  awaits ; 
But  be  it  so  or  not,  I  only  know 
My  present  duty,  and  my  Lord's  command 
To  occupy  till  he  come.     So  at  the  post 
Where  he  hath  set  me  in  his  providence, 
I  choose,  for  one,  to  meet  him  face  to  face, — 
No  faithless  servant  frightened  from  my  task, 
But  ready  when  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  calls  ; 
And  therefore,  with  all  reverence,  I  would  say, 
Let  God  do  his  work,  we  will  see  to  ours. 
Bring  in  the  candles."    And  they  brought  them 


Then  by  the  flaring  lights  the  Speaker  read, 
Albeit  with  husky  voice  and  shaking  hands, 
An  act  to  amend  an  act  to  regulate 

:  The  shad  and  alewive  fisheries.     Whereupon 
Wisely  and  well  spake  Abraham  Davenport, 
Straight  to  the  question,  with  no  figures  of  speech 
Save  the  ten  Arab  signs,  yet  not  without 
The  shrewd  dry  humor  natural  to  the  man  : 
His  awe-struck  colleagues  listening  all  the  while, 

1  Between  the  pauses  of  his  argument, 


THE  MANTLE  OF  ST.  JOHN  DE  MATHA. 


227 


To  hear  the  thunder  of  the  wrath  of  God 
Break  from  the  hollow  trumpet  of  the  cloud. 

And  there  he  stands  in  memory  to  this  day, 
Erect,  self-poised,  a  rugged  face,  half  seen 
Against  the  background  of  unnatural  dark, 
A  witness  to  the  ages  as  they  pass, 
That  simple  duty  hath  no  place  for  fear. 


He  ceased  :  just  then  the  ocean  seemed 

To  lift  a  half -faced  moon  in  sight ; 
And,  shore-ward,  o'er  the  waters  gleamed, 

From  crest  to  crest,  a  line  of  light, 
Such  as  of  old,  with  solemn  awe, 
The  fishers  by  Gennesaret  saw, 
When  dry-shod  o'er  it  walked  the  Son  of  God, 
Tracking  the  waves  with  light  where'er  his  san 
dals  trod. 

Silently  for  a  space  each  eye 

Upon  the  sudden  glory  turned  : 
Cool  from  the  land  the  breeze  blew  by, 
The    tent-ropes    napped,     the  long    beach 

churned 

Its  waves  to  foam ;  on  either  hand 
Stretched,  far  as  sight,  the  hills  of  sand  ; 
With  bays  of  marsh  and  capes  of  bush  and  tree, 
The  wood's  black  shore-line  loomed  beyond  the 
meadowy  sea. 

The  lady  rose  to  leave.     u  One  song, 

Or  hymn,"  they  urged,  "before  we  part.1' 
And  she,  with  lips  to  which  belong 

Sweet  intuitions  of  all  art, 
Give  to  the  winds  of  night  a  strain 
Which  they  who  heard  would  hear  again  ; 
And  to  her  voice  the  solemn  ocean  lent, 
Touching  its  harp  of  sand,  a  deep   accompani 
ment. 


The  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung 

Has  never  ceased  to  play  ; 
The  song  the  stars  of  morning  sung 

Has  never  died  away. 

And  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is  given, 

By  all  things  near  and  far  ; 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 

Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  strand, 

As  kneels  the  human  knee, 
Their  white  locks  bowing  to  the  sand, 

The  priesthood  of  the  sea  ! 


They  pour  their  glittering  treasures  forth, 
Their  giits  of  pearl  they  bring, 

And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth 
Take  up  the  song  they  sing. 

The  green  earth  sends  her  incense  up 
From  many  a  mountain  shrine  ; 

From  folded  leaf  and  dewy  cup 
She  pours  her  sacred  wine. 

The  mists  above  the  morning  rills 
Rise  white  as  wings  of  prayer ; 

The  altar-curtains  of  the  hills 
Are  sunset's  purple  air. 

The  winds  with  hymns  of  praise  are  loud, 

Or  low  with  sobs  of  pain, — 
The  thunder-organ  of  the  cloud, 

The  dropping  tears  of  rain. 

With  drooping  head  and  branches  crossed 

The  twilight  forest  grieves, 
Or  speaks  with  tongues  of  Pehtecost 

From  all  its  sunlit  leaves. 

The  blue  sky  is  the  temple's  arch, 

Its  transept  earth  and  air, 
The  music  of  its  starry  march 

The  chorus  of  a  prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  frame 

With  which  her  years  began, 
And  all  her  signs  and  voices  shame 

The  prayerless  heart  of  man. 


The  singer  ceased.     The  moon's  white  rays 

Fell  on  the  rapt,  still  face  of  her. 
' '  Allah  U  Allah  !     He  hath  praise 

From  all  things,"  said  the  Traveller. 
u  Oft  from  the  desert's  silent  nights, 
And  mountain  hymns  of  sunset  lights, 
My  heart  has  felt  rebuke,  as  in  his  tent 
The  Moslem's  prayer  has  shamed  my  Christian 
knee  unbent." 

He  paused,  and  lo  !  far,  faint,  and  slow 
The  bells  in  Newbury's  steeples  tolled 
The  twelve  -dead  hours  ;  the  lamp  burned  low ; 

The  singer  sought  her  canvas  fold. 
One  sadly  said,  "  At  break  of  day 
We  strike  our  tent  and  go  our  way." 
But  one  made  answer  cheerily,  "  Never  fear, 
We  '11  pitch  this  tent  of  ours  in  type  another  year. " 


NATIONAL  LYRICS. 


THE  MANTLE  OF  ST.  JOHN  DE  MATHA, 

A     LEGEND   OF    "  THE   RED,    WHITE,    AND     BLUE," 
A.    D.    1154-1864. 

A  STRONG  and  mighty  Angel, 

Calm,  terrible,  and  bright, 
The  cross  is  blended  red  and  blue 

Upon  his  mantle  white  ! 


Two  captives  by  him  kneeling, 

Each  on  his  broken  chain, 
Sang  praise  to  God  who  raiseth 

The  dead  to  life  again  ! 

Dropping  his  cross-wrought  mantle, 
"  Wear  this,"  the  Angel  said  ; 

"Take  thou,  O  Freedom's  priest,  its  sign, 
The  white,  the  blue,  and  red." 


WHAT  THE  BIRDS  SAID. 


Then  rose  up  John  de  Matha 

In  the  strength  the  Lord  Christ  gave, 

And  begged  through  all  the  land  of  France 
The  ransom  of  the  slave. 

The  gates  of  tower  and  castle 

Before  him.  open  flew, 
The  drawbridge  at  his  coming  fell, 

The  door-bolt  backward  drew. 

For  all  men  owned  his  errand, 

And  paid  his  righteous  tax  ; 
And  the  hearts  of  lord  and  peasant 

Were  in  his  hands  as  wax. 

At  last,  outbound  from  Tunis, 

His  bark  her  anchor  weighed, 
Freighted  with  seven-score  Christian  souls 

Whose  ransom  he  had  paid. 

But,  torn  by  Paynim  hatred, 

Her  sails  in  tatters  hung  ; 
And  on  the  wild  waves,  rudderless, 

A  shattered  hulk  she  swung. 

"  God  save  us  !  "  cried  the  captain, 

"  For  naught  can  man  avail ; 
O,  woe  betide  the  ship  that  lacks 

Her  rudder  and  her  sail ! 

"  Behind  us  are  the  Moormen  ; 

At  sea  we  sink  or  strand  : 
There  's  death  upon  the  water, 

There  's  death  upon  the  land  !  " 

Then  up  spake  John  de  Matha : 

1 1  God's  errands  never  fail ! 
Take  thou  the  mantle  which  I  wear, 

And  make  of  it  a  sail." 

They  raised  the  cross-wrought  mantle, 

The  blue,  the  white,  the  red ; 
And  straight  before  the  wind  off-shore 

The  ship  of  Freedom  sped. 

"  God  help  us  !  "  cried  the  seamen, 

"For  vain  is  mortal  skill : 
The  good  ship  on  a  stormy  sea 

Is  drifting  at  its  will." 

Then  up  spake  John  de  Matha  : 

"My  mariners  never  fear  ! 
The  Lord  whose  breath  has  filled  her  sail 

May  well  our  vessel  steer  !  " 

So  on  through  storm  and  darkness 

They  drove  for  weary  hours  ; 
And  lo  !  the  third  gray  morning  shone 

On  Ostia's  friendly  towers. 

And  on  the  walls  the  watchers 

The  ship  of  mercy  knew, — 
They  knew  far  off  its  holy  cross, 

The  red,  the  white,  and  blue. 

And  the  bells  in  all  the  steeples 

Rang  out  in  glad  accord, 
To  welcome  home  to  Christian  soil 

The  ransomed  of  the  Lord. 

So  runs  the  ancient  legend 

By  bard  and  painter  told  ; 
And  lo  !  the  cycle  rounds  again, 

The  new  is  as  the  old  ! 

With  rudder  foully  broken, 

And  sails  by  traitors  torn, 
Our  country  on  a  midnight  sea 

Is  waiting  for  the  morn. 


Before  her,  nameless  terror ; 

Behind,  the  pirate  foe  ; 
The  clouds  are  black  above  her, 

The  sea  is  white  below. 

The  hope  of  all  who  suffer, 
The  dread  of  all  who  wrong, 

She  drifts  in  darkness  and  in  storm, 
How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long  ? 

But  courage,  O  my  mariners  ! 

Ye  shall  not  suffer  wreck, 
While  up  to  God  the  freedman's  prayers 

Are  rising  from  your  deck. 

Is  not  your  sail  the  banner 
Which  God  hath  blest  anew, 

The  mantle  that  De  Matha  wore, 
The  red,  the  white,  the  blue  V 

Its  hues  are  all  of  heaven, — 

The  red  of  sunset's  dye, 
The  whiteness  of  the  moon-lit  cloud, 

The  blue  of  morning's  sky. 

Wait  cheerily,  then,  O  mariners, 

For  daylight  and  for  land  ; 
The  breath  of  God  is  in  your  sail, 

Your  rudder  is  His  hand. 

Sail  on,  sail  on,  deep-freighted 
With  blessings  and  with  hopes  ; 

The  saints  of  old  with  shadowy  hands 
Are  pulling  at  your  ropes. 

Behind  ye  holy  martyrs 

Uplift  the  palm  and  crown  ; 

Before  ye  unborn  ages  send 
Their  benedictions  down. 

Take  heart  from  John  de  Matha  ! — 

God's  errands  never  fail ! 
Sweep  on  through  storm  and  darkness, 

The  thunder  and  the  hail ! 

Sail  on  !     The  morning  cometh, 
The  port  ye  yet  shall  win  ; 
nd  all  the  bells  of  God  shall  ring 
The  good  ship  bravely  in  ! 


WHAT  THE  BIRDS  SAID. 

THE  birds  against  the  April  wind 

Flew  northward,  singing  as  they  flew  ; 

They  sang,  u  The  land  we  leave  behind 

Has  swords  for  corn-blades,  blood  for  dew." 

' '  O  wild-birds,  flying  from  the  South, 
What  saw  and  heard  ye,  gazing  down  ? 

u  We  saw  the  mortar's  upturned  mouth, 
The  sickened  camp,  the  blazing  town  ! 

"  Beneath  the  bivouac's  starry  lamps, 
We  saw  your  march-worn  children  die  ; 

In  shrouds  of  moss,  in  cypress  swamps, 
We  saw  your  dead  uncoffined  lie. 

u  We  heard  the  starving  prisoner's  sighs, 
And  saw,  from  line  and  trench,  your  sons 

Follow  our  flight  with  home-sick  eyes 
Beyond  the  battery's  smoking  guns." 

"And  heard  and  saw  ye  only  wrong 
And  pain,"  I  cried,  "O  wing- worn  flocks  ?" 

"We  heard,"  they  sang,  "the  freedman's  song, 
The  crash  of  Slavery's  broken  locks  ! 


LAUS  DEO !— THE  PEACE  AUTUMN. 


229 


"  We  saw  from  new,  uprising  States 
The  treason-nursing  mischief  spurned, 

As,  crowding  Freedom's  ample  gates, 
The  long-estranged  and  lost  returned. 

"  O'er  dusky  faces,  seamed  and  old, 
And  hands  horn-hard  with  unpaid  toil, 

With  hope  in  every  rustling  fold, 
We  saw  your  star-dropt  Bag  uncoil. 

11  And  struggling  up  through  sounds  accursed, 
A  grateful  murmur  clomb  the  air  ; 

A  whisper  scarcely  heard  at  first, 
It  filled  the  listening  heavens  with  prayer. 

tk  And  sweet  and  far,  as  from  a  star, 
Replied  a  voice  which  shall  not  cease, 

Till,  drowning  all  the  noise  of  war, 
It  sings  the  blessed  song  of  peace  !  " 

So  to  me,  in  a  doubtful  day 

Of  chill  and  slowly  greening  spring, 

Low  stooping  from  the  cloudy  gray, 
The  wild-birds  sang  or  seemed  to  sing. 

They  vanished  in  the  misty  air, 

The  song  went  with  them  in  their  flight ; 

But  lo  !  they  left  the  sunset  fair 
And  in  the  evening  there  was  light. 


LAUS  DEO  ! 

ON  HEARING  THE  BELLS  RING  ON  THE  PASSAGE 
OF  THE  CONSTITUTIONAL  AMENDMENT  ABOL 
ISHING  SLAVERY. 

IT  is  done  ! 

Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel ! 

How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal, 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town ! 

Ring,  O  bells ! 

Every  stroke  exulting  tells 
Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 

Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 

Ring  for  every  listening  ear 
Of  Eternity  and  Time  ! 

Let  us  kneel : 

God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 
And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 

Lord,  forgive  us  !     What  are  we, 

That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 
That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound  ! 

For  the  Lord 
On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad  ; 

In  the  earthquake  he  has  spoken ; 
He  has  smitten  with  his  thunder 
The  iron  walls  asunder, 

And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken  ! 

Loud  and  long 

Lift  the  old  exulting  song  ; 
Sing  with  Miriam  by  the  sea 

He  has  cast  the  mighty  down  ; 

Horse  and  rider  sink  and  drown  ; 
"He  hath  triumphed  gloriously  !  " 

Did  we  dare, 

In  our  agony  of  prayer, 
Ask  for  more  than  He  has  done  ? 

When  was  ever  his  right  hand 

Over  any  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun  ? 


How  they  pale, 
Ancient  myth  and  song  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise  ! 

Blotted  out ! 
All  within  and  all  about 

Shall  a  fresher  life  begin ; 
Freer  breathe  the  universe 
As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 

On  the  dead  and  buried  sin  ! 

It  is  done ! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice, 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth  ! 

Ring  and  swing, 
Bells  of  joy  !     On  morning's  wing 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad  ! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns, 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God  ! 


THE  PEACE  AUTUMK 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  ESSEX  COUNTY  AGRICUL 
TURAL  FESTIVAL,    1865. 

THANK  God  for  rest,  where  none  molest, 

And  none  can  make  afraid, — 
For  Peace  that  sits  as  Plenty's  guest 

Beneath  the  homestead  shade  ! 

Bring  pike  and  gun,  the  sword's  red  scourge, 

The  negro's  broken  chains, 
And  beat  them  at  the  blacksmith's  forge 

To  ploughshares  for  our  plains. 

Alike  henceforth  our  hills  of  snow, 
And  vales  where  cotton  flowers  ; 

All  streams  that  flow,  all  winds  that  blow, 
Are  Freedom's  motive-powers. 

Henceforth  to  Labor's  chivalry 

Be  knightly  honors  paid ; 
For  nobler  than  the  sword's  shall  be 

The  sickle's  accolade. 

Build  up  an  altar  to  the  Lord, 

O  grateful  hearts  of  ours  ! 
And  shape  it  of  the  greenest  sward 

That  ever  drank  the  showers. 

Lay  all  the  bloom  of  gardens  there, 

And  there  the  orchard  fruits  ; 
Bring  golden  grain  from  sun  and  air, 

From  earth  her  goodly  roots 

There  let  our  banners  droop  and  flow, 

The  stars  uprise  and  fall ; 
Our  roll  of  martyrs,  sad  and  slow, 

Let  sighing  breezes  call. 

Their  names  let  hands  of  horn  and  tan 

And  rough-siiod  feet  applaud, 
Who  died  to  make  the  slave  a  man, 

And  link  with  toil  reward. 

There  let  the  common  heart  keep  time 

To  such  an  anthem  sung 
As  never  swelled  on  poet's  rhyme, 

Or  thrilled  on  singer's  tongue. 


230         TO  THE  THIRTY-NINTH  CONGRESS.— THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS. 


Song  of  our  burden  and  relief, 

Of  peace  and  long  annoy  ; 
The  passion  of  our  mighty  grief 

And  our  exceeding  joy  ! 

A  song  of  praise  to  Him  who  filled 
The  harvests  sown  in  tears, 

And  gave  each  field  a  double  yield 
To  feed  our  battle-years  ! 

A  song  of  faith  that  trusts  the  end 

To  match  the  good  begun, 
Nor  doubts  the  power  of  Love  to  blend 

The  hearts  of  men  as  one  ! 


TO  THE  THIRTY-NINTH  CONGRESS. 

O  PEOPLE-CHOSEN  !  are  ye  not 
Likewise  the  chosen  of  the  Lord, 
To  do  his  will  and  speak  his  word  ? 

From  the  loud  thunder-storm  of  war 
Not  man  alone  hath  called  ye  forth, 
But  he,  the  God  of  all  the  earth  ! 

The  torch  of  vengeance  in  your  hands 
He  quenches  ;  unto  Him  belongs 
The  solemn  recompense  of  wrongs. 

Enough  of  blood  the  land  has  seen, 
And  not  by  cell  or  gallows-stair 
Shall  ye  the  way  of  God  prepare. 

Say  to  the  pardon-seekers, — Keep 
Your  manhood,  bend  no  suppliant  knees, 
Nor  palter  with  unworthy  pleas. 

Above  your  voices  sounds  the  wail 
Of  starving  men ;  we  shut  in  vain 
Our  eyes  to  Pillow's  ghastly  stain. 


What  words  can  drown  that  bitter  cry  ? 
What  tears  wash  out  that  stain  of  death  ? 
What  oaths  confirm  your  broken  faith  ? 

From  you  alone  the  guaranty  - 

Of  union,  freedom,  peace,  we  claim  ; 
We  urge  no  conqueror's  terms  of  shame. 

Alas  !  no  victor's  pride  is  ours  ; 
We  bend  above  our  triumphs  won 
Like  David  o'er  his  rebel  son. 

Be  men,  not  beggars.     Cancel  all 

By  one  brave,  generous  action  ;  trust 
Your  better  instincts,  and  be  just ! 

Make  all  men  peers  before  the  law, 

Take  hands  from  off  the  negro's  throat, 
Give  black  and  white  an  equal  vote. 

Keep  all  your  forfeit  lives  and  lands, 
But  give  the  common  law's  redress 
To  labor's  utter  nakedness. 

Revive  the  old  heroic  will ; 

Be  in  the  right  as  brave  and  strong 
As  ye  have  proved  yourselves  in  wrong. 

Defeat  shall  then  be  victory, 
Your  loss  the  wealth  of  full  amends, 
And  hate  be  love,  and  foes  be  friends. 

Then  buried  be  the  dreadful  past, 

Its  common  slain  be  mourned,  and  let 
All  memories  soften  to  regret. 

Then  shall  the  Union's  mother-heart 
Her  lost  and  wandering  ones  recall, 
Forgiving  and  restoring  all, — 

And  Freedom  break  her  marble  trance 
Above  the  Capitolian  dome, 
Stretch  hands,  and  bid  ye  welcome  home  ! 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS. 

0  FRIENDS  !  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod 
The  quiet  aisles  of  praver, 

Glad  witness  to  your  zeal  for  God 
And  love  of  man  I  bear. 

1  trace  your  lines  of  argument ; 
Your  logic  linked  and  strong 

I  weigh  as  one  who  dreads  dissent, 
And  fears  a  doubt  as  wrong. 

But  still  my  human  hands  are  weak 

To  hold  your  iron  creeds  : 
Against  the  words  ye  bid  me  speak 

My  heart  within  me  pleads. 

Who  fathoms  the  Eternal  Thought? 

Who  talks  of  scheme  and  plan  ? 
The  Lord  is  God  !     He  needeth  not 

The  poor  device  of  man. 


I  walk  with  bare,  hushed  feet  the  ground 
Ye  tread  with  boldness  shod  ; 

I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound 
The  love  and  power  of  God. 

Ye  praise  His  justice  ;  even  such 

His  pitying  love  I  deem  : 
Ye  seek  a  king  ;  I  fain  would  touch 

The  robe  that  hath  no  seam. 

Ye  see  the  curse  which  overbroods 

A  world  of  pain  and  loss  ; 
I  hear  our  Lord's  beatitudes 

And  prayer  upon  the  cross. 

More  than  your  schoolmen  teach,  within 

Myself,  alas  !  I  know  ; 
Too  dark  ye  cannot  paint  the  sin, 

Too  small  the  merit  show. 

I  bow  my  forehead  to  the  dust, 

I  veil  mine  eyes  for  shame. 
And  urge,  in  trembling  self -distrust, 

A  prayer  without  a  claim. 


OUR  MASTER. 


I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies, 

I  feel  the  guilt  within  ; 
I  hear,  with  groan  and  travail-cries, 

The  world  confess  its  sin. 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 
And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 

To  one  fixed  stake  my  Spirit  clings ; 
I  know  that  God  is  good  ! 

Not  mine  to  look  where  cherubim 

And  seraphs  may  not  see, 
But  nothing  can  be  good  in  Him 

Which  evil  is  in  me. 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below 

I  dare  not  throne  above  : 
I  know  not  of  His  hate, — I  know 

His  goodness  and  His  love. 

I  dimly  guess  from  blessings  known 

Of  greater  out  of  sight, 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  own 

His  judgments  too  are  right. 

I  long  for  household  voices  gone, 

For  vanished  smiles  I  long, 
But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on, 

And  He  can  do  no  wrong. 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

And  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak 

To  bear  an  untried  pain, 
The  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break, 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 

No  offering  of  my  own  I  have, 
Nor  works  my  faith  to  prove ; 

I  can  but  give  the  gifts  He  gave, 
And  plead  His  love  for  love. 

And  so  beside  the  Silent  Sea, 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar  ; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 

I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 

Their  f  ronded  palms  in  air  ; 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 

Beyond  His  love  and  care. 

O  brothers  !  if  my  faith  is  vain, 

If  hopes  like  these  betray, 
Pray  for  me  that  my  feet  may  gain 

The  sure  and  safer  way. 

And  Thou,  O  Lord  !  by  whom  are  seen 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be, 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 

My  human  heart  on  Thee  ! 


OUR  MASTER. 

IMMORTAL  Love,  forever  full, 

Forever  flowing  free, 
Forever  shared,  forever  whole, 

A  never-ebbing  sea ! 

Our  outward  lips  confess  the  name 

All  other  names  above  ; 
Love  only  knoweth  whence  it  came, 

And  comprehendeth  love. 


Blow,  winds  of  God,  awake  and  blow 

The  mists  of  earth  away  ! 
Shine  out,  O  Light  Divine,  and  show 

How  wide  and  far  we  stray  ! 

Hush  every  lip,  close  every  book, 

The  strife  of  tongues  forbear  ; 
Why  forward  reach,  or  backward  look, 

For  love  that  clasps  like  air  ? 

We  may  not  climb  the  heavenly  steeps 
To  bring  the  Lord  Christ  down  : 

In  vain  we  search  the  lowest  deeps, 
For  him  no  depths  can  drown. 

Nor  holy  bread,  nor  blood  of  grape, 

The  lineaments  restore 
Of  him  we  know  in  outward  shape 

And  in  the  flesh  no  more. 

He  cometh  not  a  king  to  reign  ;  . 

The  world's  long  hope  is  dim  ; 
The  weary  centuries  watch  in  vain 

The  clouds  of  heaven  for  him. 

Death  comes,  life  goes  ;  the  asking  eye 

And  ear  are  answerless ; 
The  grave  is  dumb,  the  hollow  sky 

Is  sad  with  silentness. 

The  letter  fails,  and  systems  fall, 

And  every  symbol  wanes  ; 
The  Spirit  over-brooding  all 

Eternal  Love  remains. 

And  not  for  signs  in  heaven  above 

Or  earth  below  they  look, 
Who  know  with  John  his  smile  of  love, 

With  Peter  his  rebuke. 

In  joy  of  inward  peace,  or  sense 

Of  sorrow  over  sin, 
He  is  his  own  best  evidence, 

His  witness  is  within. 

No  fable  old,  nor  mythic  lore, 

Nor  dream  of  bards  and  seers, 
No  dead  fact  stranded  on  the  shore 

Of  the  oblivious  years  ; — 

But  warm,  sweet,  tender,  even  yet 

A  present  help  is  he  ; 
And  faith  has  still  its  Olivet, 

And  love  its  Galilee. 

The  healing  of  his  seamless  dress 

Is  by  our  beds  of  pain  ; 
We  touch  him  in  life's  throng  and  press, 

And  we  are  whole  again. 

Through  him  the  first  fond  prayers  are  said 

Our  lips  of  childhood  frame, 
The  last  low  whispers  of  our  dead 

Are  burdened  with  his  name. 

O  Lord  and  Master  of  us  all ! 

Whate'er  our  name  or  sign, 
We  own  thy  sway,  we  hear  thy  call, 

We  test  our  lives  by  thine. 

Thou  judgest  us ;  thy  purity 

Doth  all  our  lusts  condemn  ; 
The  love  that  draws  us  nearer  thee 

Is  hot  with  wrath  to  them. 

Our  thoughts  lie  open  to  thy  sight  ; 

And,  naked  to  thy  glance, 
Our  secret  sins  are  in  the  light 

Of  thy  pure  countenance. 


THE  VANISHERS. 


Thy  healing  pains,  a  keen  distress 

Thy  tender  light  shines  in ; 
Thy  sweetness  is  the  bitterness, 

Thy  grace  the  pang  of  sin. 

Yet,  weak  and  blinded  though  we  be, 

Thou  dost  our  service  own ; 
We  bring  our  varying  gifts  to  thee, 

And  thou  rejectest  none. 

To  thee  our  full  humanity, 

Its  joys  and  pains,  belong  ; 
The  wrong  of  man  to  man  on  thee 

Inflicts  a  deeper  wrong. 

Who  hates,  hates  thee,  who  loves  becomes 

Therein  to  thee  allied  ; 
All  sweet  accords  of  hearts  and  homes 

In  thee  are  multiplied. 

Deep  strike  thy  roots,  O  heavenly  Vine, 

Within  our  earthly  sod, 
Most  human  and  yet  most  divine, 

The  flower  of  man  and  God  ! 

O  Love  !     O  Life  !     Our  faith  and  sight 

Thy  presence  maketh  one  : 
As  through  transfigured  clouds  of  white 

We  trace  the  noon-day  sun. 

So,  to  our  mortal  eyes  subdued, 
Flesh-veiled,  but  not  concealed, 

We  know  in  thee  the  fatherhood 
And  heart  of  God  revealed. 

We  faintly  hear,  we  dimly  see, 

In  differing  phrase  we  pray  ; 
But,  dim  or  clear,  we  own  in  thee 

The  Light,  the  Truth,  the  Way  ! 

The  homage  that  we  render  thee 

Is  still  our  Father's  own  ; 
Nor  jealous  claim  or  rivalry 

Divides  the  Cross  and  Throne. 

To  do  thy  will  is  more  than  praise, 
As  words  are  less  than  deeds, 

And  simple  trust  can  find  thy  ways 
We  miss  with  chart  of  creeds. 

No  pride  of  self  thy  service  hath, 

No  place  for  me  and  mine  ; 
Our  human  strength  is  weakness,  death 

Our  life,  apart  from  thine. 

Apart  from  thee  all  gain  is  loss, 

All  labor  vainly  done  ; 
The  solemn  shadow  of  thy  Cross 

Is  better  than  the  sun. 

Alone,  O  Love  ineffable  ! 

Thy  saving  name  is  given  ; 
To  turn  aside  from  thee  is  hell, 

To  walk  with  thee  is  heaven ! 

How  vain,  secure  in  all  thou  art, 

Our  noisy  championship  ! — 
The  sighing  of  the  contrite  heart 

Is  more  than  flattering  lip. 

Not  mine  the  bigot's  partial  plea, 

Nor  thine  the  zealot's  ban ; 
Thou  well  canst  spare  a  love  of  thee 

Which  ends  in  hate  of  man. 

Our  Friend,  our  Brother,  and  our  Lord. 

What  may  thy  service  be  ? — 
Nor  name,  nor  form,  nor  ritual  word, 

But  simply  following  thee. 


We  bring  no  ghastly  holocaust, 

We  pile  no  graven  stone  ; 
He  serves  thee  best  who  loveth  most 

His  brothers  and  thy  own. 

Thy  litanies,  sweet  offices 

Of  love  and  gratitude  ; 
Thy  sacramental  liturgies, 

The  joy  of  do  ing 'good. 

In  vain  shall  waves  of  incense  drift 

The  vaulted  nave  around, 
In  vain  the  minster  turret  lift 

Its  brazen  weights  of  sound. 

The  heart  must  ring  thy  Christmas  bells, 

Thy  inward  altars  raise  ; 
Its  faith  and  hope  thy  canticles, 

And  its  obedience  praise  ! 


THE  VANISHERS. 

SWEETEST  of  all  childlike  dreams 

In  the  sweet  Indian  lore, 
Still  to  me  the  legend  seems 

Of  the  shapes  who  flit  before. 

Flitting,  passing,  seen  and  gone, 
Never  reached  nor  found  at  rest, 

Baffling  search,  but  beckoning  on 
To  the  Sunset  of  the  Blest. 

From  the  clefts  of  mountain  rocks, 
Through  the  dark  of  lowland  firs, 

Flash  the  eyes  and  flow  the  locks 
Of  the  mystic  Vanishers ! 

And  the  fisher  in  his  skiff, 
And  the  hunter  on  the  moss, 

Hear  their  call  from  cape  and  cliff, 
See  their  hands  the  birch-leaves  toss. 

Wistful,  longing,  through  the  green 
Twilight  of  the  clustered  pines, 

In  their  faces  rarely  seen 
Beauty  more  than  mortal  shines. 

Fringed  with  gold  their  mantles  flow 
On  the  slopes  of  westering  knolls ; 

In  the  wind  they  whisper  low 
Of  the  Sunset  Land  of  Souls. 

Doubt  who  may,  O  friend  of  mine  ! 

Thou  and  I  have  seen  them  too ; 
On  before  with  beck  and  sign 

Still  they  glide  and  we  pursue. 

More  than  clouds  of  purple  trail 

In  the  gold  of  setting  day ; 
More  than  gleams  of  wing  or  sail, 

Beckon  from  the  sea-mist  gray. 

Glimpses  of  immortal  youth, 

Gleams  and  glories  seen  and  flown, 

Far-heard  voices  sweet  with  truth, 
Airs  from  viewless  Eden  blown, — 

Beauty  that  eludes  our  grasp, 

Sweetness  that  transcends  our  taste, 

Loving  hands  we  may  not  clasp, 
Shining  feet  that  mock  our  haste, — 

Gentle  eyes  we  closed  below, 
Tender  voices  heard  once  more, 

Smile  and  call  us,  as  they  go 
On  and  onward,  still  before. 


REVISITED.— BRYANT  ON  HIS  BIRTHRIGHT. 


233 


Guided  thus,  O  friend  of  mine  ! 

Let  us  walk  our  little  way, 
Knowing  by  each  beckoning  sign 

That  we  are  not  quite  astray. 

Chase  we  still,  with  baffled  feet, 
Smiling  eye  and  waving  hand, 

Sought  and  seeker  -soon  shall  meet, 
Lost  and  found,  in  Sunset  Land ! 


REVISITED. 

READ  AT  THE    "LAURELS,"  ON   THE    MERRIMACK, 
6TH   MONTH,    1865. 

THE  roll  of  drums  and  the  bugle's  wailing 

Vex  the  air  of  our  vales  no  more  ; 
The  spear  is  beaten  to  hooks  of  pruning, 

The  share  is  the  sword  the  soldiers  wore  ! 

Sing  soft,  sing  low,  our  lowland  river, 

Under  thy  banks  of  laurel  bloom  ; 
Softly  and  sweet,  as  the  hour  beseemeth, 

Sing  us  the  songs  of  peace  and  home. 

Let  all  the  tenderer  voices  of  nature 

Temper  the  triumph  and  chasten  mirth, 

Full  of  the  infinite  love  and  pity 
For  fallen  martyr  and  darkened  hearth. 

But  to  Him  who  gives  us  beauty  for  ashes, 
And  the  oil  of  joy  for  mourning  long, 

Let  thy  hills  give  thanks,  and  all  thy  waters 
Break  into  jubilant  waves  of  song  ! 

Bring  us  the  airs  of  hills  and  forests, 
The  sweet  aroma  of  birch  and  pine, 

Give  us  a  waft  of  the  north-wind  laden 
With  sweetbrier  odors  and  breath  of  kine  ! 

Bring  us  the  purple  of  mountain  sunsets, 
Shadows  of  clouds  that  rake  the  hills. 

The  green  repose  of  thy  Plymouth  meadows, 
The  gleam  and  ripple  of  Campton  rills. 

Lead  us  away  in  shadow  and  sunshine, 
Slaves  of  fancy,  through  all  thy  miles, 

The  winding  ways  of  Pemigewasset, 
And  Winnipesaukee's  hundred  isles. 

Shatter  in  sunshine  over  thy  ledges, 
Laugh  in  thy  plunges  from  fall  to  fall ; 

Play  with  thy  fringes  of  elms,  and  darken 
Under  the  shade  of  the  mountain  wall. 

The  cradle-song  of  thy  hillside  fountains 
Here  in  thy  glory  and  strength  repeat ; 

Give  us  a  taste  of  thy  upland  music, 
Show  us  the  dance  of  thy  silver  feet. 

Into  thy  dutiful  life  of  uses 

Pour  the  music  and  weave  the  flowers ; 
With  the  song  of  birds  and  bloom  of  meadows 

Lighten  and  gladden  thy  heart  and  ours. 

Sing  on  !    bring  down,  O  lowland  river, 
The  joy  of  the  hills  to  the  waiting  sea ; 

The  wealth  of  the  vales,  the  pomp  of  mountains, 
The  breath  of  the  woodlands,  bear  with  thee. 

Here,  in  the  calm  of  thy  seaward  valley, 
Mirth  and  labor  shall  hold  their  truce  ; 

Dance  of  water  and  mill  of  grinding, 
Both  are  beauty  and  both  are  use. 


Type  of  the  Northland's  strength  and  glory, 
Pride  and  hope  of  our  home  and  race, — 

Freedom  lending  to  rugged  labor 
Tints  of  beauty  and  lines  of  grace. 

Once  again,  O  beautiful  river, 

Hear  our  greetings  and  take  our  thanks  ; 
Hither  we  come,  as  Eastern  pilgrims 

Throng  to  the  Jordan's  sacred  banks. 

For  though  by  the  Master's  feet  untrodden, 
Though  never  his  word  has  stilled  thy  waves, 

Well  for  us  may  thy  shores  be  holy, 
With  Christian  altars  and  saintly  graves. 

And  well  may  we  own  thy  hint  and  token 
Of  fairer  valleys  and  streams  than  these, 

Where  the  rivers  of  God  are  full  of  water, 
And  full  of  sap  are  his  healing  trees  ! 


THE  COMMON  QUESTION. 

BEHIND  us  at  our  evening  meal 

The  gray  bird  ate  his  fill, 
Swung  downward  by  a  single  claw, 

And  wiped  his  hooked  bill. 

He  shook  his  wings  and  crimson  tail, 

And  set  his  head  aslant, 
And,  in  his  sharp,  impatient  way. 

Asked,  "What  does  Charlie  want?" 

"Fie,  silly  bird  !  "  I  answered,  "tuck 
Your  head  beneath  your  wing, 

And  go  to  sleep  "  ; — but  o'er  and  o'er 
He  asked  the  self-same  thing. 

Then,  smiling,  to  myself  I  said  : — 

How  like  are  men  and  birds  ! 
We  all  are  saying  what  he  says, 

In  action  or  in  words. 

The  boy  with  whip  and  top  and  drum, 

The  girl  with  hoop  and  doll, 
And  men  with  lands  and  houses,  ask 

The  question  of  Poor  Poll. 

However  full,  with  something  more 

We  fain  the  bag  would  cram ; 
We  sigh  above  our  crowded  nets 

For  fish  that  never  swam. 

No  bounty  of  indulgent  Heaven 

The  vague  desire  can  stay  ; 
Self-love  is  still  a  Tartar  mill 

For  grinding  prayers  alway. 

The  dear  God  hears  and  pities  all ; 

He  knoweth  all  our  wants  ; 
And  what  we  blindly  ask  of  him 

His  love  withholds  or  grants. 

And  so  I  sometimes  think  our  prayers 

Might  well  be  merged  in  one  ; 
And  nest  and  perch  and  hearth  and  church 

Repeat,  "Thy  will  be  done." 


BRYANT  ON  HIS  BIRTHRIGHT. 

WE  praise  not  now  the  poet's  art, 
The  rounded  beauty  of  his  song  ; 

Who  weighs  him  from  his  life  apart 
Must  do  his  nobler  nature  wrong. 


234 


HYMN.— THOMAS  STARR  KING. 


Not  for  the  eye,  familiar  grown 

With  charms  to  common  sight  denied, — 

The  marvellous  gift  he  shares  alone 
With  him  who  walked  on  Rydal-side  ; 

Not  for  rapt  hymn  nor  woodland  lay 
Too  grave  for  smiles,  too  sweet  for  tears ; 

We  speak  his  praise  who  wears  to-day 
The  glory  of  his  seventy  years. 

When  Peace  brings  Freedom  in  her  train, 
Let  happy  lips  his  songs  rehearse ; 

His  life  is  now  his  noblest  strain, 
His  manhood  better  than  his  verse  ! 

Thank  God  !  his  hand  on  Nature's  keys 
Its  cunning  keeps  at  life's  full  span  ; 

But,  dimmed  and  dwarfed,  in  times  like  these, 
The  poet  seems  beside  the  man  ! 

So  be  it !  let  the  garlands  die, 

The  singer's  wreath,  the  painter's  meed, 
Let  our  names  perish,  if  thereby 

Our  country  may  be  saved  and  freed  ! 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  THOMAS   STARR  KING'S 
HOUSE  OF  WORSHIP,    1864. 

AI.IIDST  these  glorious  works  of  Thine, 
The  solemn  minarets  of  the  pine, 
And  awful  Shasta's  icy  shrine, — 

Where  swell  Thy  hymns  from  wave  and  gale, 
And  organ-thunders  never  fail. 
Behind  the  cataract's  silver  veil, — 

Our  puny  walls  to  Thee  we  raise, 

Our  poor  reed-music  sounds  Thy  praise  : 

Forgive,  O  Lord,  our  childish  ways  ! 

For,  kneeling  on  these  altar-stairs, 
We  urge  Thee  not  with  selfish  prayers, 
Nor  murmur  at  our  daily  cares. 

Before  Thee,  in  an  evil  day, 

Our  country's  bleeding  heart  we  lay, 

And  dare  not  ask  Thy  hand  to  stay  ; 

But,  through  the  war-cloud,  pray  to  Thee 
For  union,  but  a  union  free, 
With  peace  that  comes  of  purity  ! 


That  Thou  wilt  bare  thy  arm  to  save 
And,  smiting  through  this  Red  Sea  wave, 
Make  broad  a  pathway  for  the  slave  ! 

For  us,  confessing  all  our  need, 

We  trust  nor  rite  nor  word  nor  deed, 

Nor  yet  the  broken  staff  of  creed. 

Assured  alone  that  Thou  art  good 
To  each,  as  to  the  multitude, 
Eternal  Love  and  Fatherhood, — 

Weak,  sinful,  blind,  to  Thee  we  kneel, 
Stretch  dumbly  forth  our  hands,  and  feel 
Our  weakness  is  our  strong  appeal. 

So,  by  these  Western  gates  of  Even 
We  wait  to  see  with  thy  forgiven 
The  opening  Golden  Gate  of  Heaven  ! 

Suffice  it  now.     In  time  to  be 
Shall  holier  altars  rise  to  thee, — 
Thy  Church  our  broad  humanity  ! 

White  flowers  of  love  its  walls  shall  climb, 
Soft  bells  of  peace  shall  ring  its  chime, 
Its  days  shall  all  be  holy  time. 

A  sweeter  song  shall  then  be  heard, — 
The  music  of  the  world's  accord 
Confessing  Christ,  the  Inward  Word  ! 

That  song  shall  swell  from  shore  to  shore, 
One  hope,  one  faith,  one  love,  restore 
The  seamless  robe  that  Jesus  wore. 


THOMAS  STARR  KING. 

THE  great  work  laid  upon  his  twoscore  years 
Is  done,  and  well  done.     If  we  drop  our  tears, 
Who  loved  him  as  few  men  were  ever  loved, 
We  mourn  no  blighted  hope  nor  broken  plan 
With  him  whose  life   stands  rounded  and  ap 
proved 

In  the  full  growth  and  stature  of  a  man. 
Mingle,  O  bells,  along  the  Western  slope, 
With  your  deep  toll  a  sound  of  faith  and  hope  ! 
Wave  cheerily  still,  O  banner,  half-way  down, 
From  thousand-masted  bay  and  steepled  town  ! 
Let  the  strong  organ  with  its  loftiest  swell 
Lift  the  proud  sorrow  of  the  land,  and  tell 
That  the  brave  sower  saw  his  ripened  grain. 
O  East  and  West  !  O  morn  and  sunset  twain 
No  more  forever  ! — has  he  lived  in  vain 
Who,  priest  of  Freedom,  made  ye  one,  and  told 
Your  bridal  service  from  his  lips  of  gold  ? 


AMONG  THE  HILLS. 


235 


AMOISTG   THE   HILLS, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

1868. 


TO     ANNIE    FIELDS 

THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME, 

DESCRIPTIVE  OF  SCENES  WITH  WHICH   SHE  IS  FAMILIAR, 
IS   GRATEFULLY   OFFERED. 


PRELUDE. 

ALONG  the  roadside,  like  the  flowers  of  gold 
That  tawny  Incas  for  their  gardens  wrought, 
Heavy  with  sunshine  droops  the  golden-rod, 
And  the  red  pennons  of  the  cardinal-flowers 
Hang  motionless  upon  their  upright  staves. 
The  sky  is  hot  and  hazy,  and  the  wind, 
Wing-weary  with  its  long  flight  from  the  south, 
Unf elt ;  yet,  closely  scanned,  yon  maple  leaf 
With  faintest  motion,  as  one  stirs  in  dreams, 
Confesses  it.     The  locust  by  the  wall 
Stabs  the  noon-silence  with  his  sharp  alarm. 
A  single  hay-cart  down  the  dusty  road 
Creaks  slowly,  with  its  driver  fast  asleep 
On  the  load's  top.     Against  the  neighboring  hill, 
Huddled  along  the  stone  wall's  shady  side, 
Tae  sheep  show  white,  as  if  a  snowdrift  still 
Defied  the  dog-star.     Through  the  open  door 
A  drowsy  smell  of  flowers — gray  heliotrope, 
And  white  sweet  cloverj  and  shy  mignonette — 
Comes  faintly  in,  and  silent  chorus  lends 
To  the  pervading  symphony  of  peace. 

No  time  is  this  for  hands  long  overworn 

To  task  their  strength  :  and  (unto  Him  be  praise 

Who  giveth  quietness  ! )  the  stress  and  strain 

Of  years  that  did  the  work  of  centuries 

Have  ceased,  and  we  can  draw  our  breath  once 

more 

Freely  and  full.    So,  as  yon  harvesters 
Make  glad  their  nooning  underneath  the  elms 
With  tale  and  riddle  and  old  snatch  of  song, 
I  lay  aside  grave  themes,  and  idly  turn 
The  leaves  of  memory's  sketch-book,    dreaming 

o'er 

Old  summer  pictures  of  the  quiet  hills, 
And  human  life,  as  quiet,  at  their  feet. 

And  yet  no  all.     A  farmer's  son, 

Proud  of  field-lore  and  harvest  craft  and  feeling 

All  their  fine  possibilities,  how  rich 

And  restful  even  poverty  and  toil 

Become  when  beauty,  harmony,  and  love 

Sit  at  their  humble  hearth  as  angels  sat 

At  evening  in  the  patriarch's  tent,  when  man 

Makes  labor  noble,  and  his  fa.mer's  frock 

The  symbol  of  a  Christian  chivalry 

Tender  and  just  and  generous  to  her 

Who  clothes  with  grace  all  duty  ;  still,  I  know 

Too  well  the  picture  has  another  side, — 

How  wearily  the  grind  of  toil  goes  on 

Where  love  is  wanting,  how  the  eye  and  ear 

And  heart  are  starved  amidst  the  plenitude 

Of  nature,  and  how  hard  and  colorless 


Is  life  without  an  atmosphere.     I  look 
Across  the  lapse  of  half  a  century, 
And  call  to  mind  old  homesteads,  where  no  flower 
Told  that  the  spring  had  come,  but  evil  weeds, 
Nightshade  and  rough-leaved  burdock  in  the  place 
Of  the  sweet  doorway  greeting  of  the  rose 
And  honeysuckle,  where  the  house  walls  seemed 
Blistering  in  sun,  without  a  tree  or  vine 
To  cast  the  tremulous  shadow  of  its  leaves 
Across  the  curtainless  windows  from  whose  panes 
Fluttered  the  signal  rags  of  shiftlessness  ; 
Within,  the  cluttered  kitchen-floor,  unwashed 
(Broom-clean  I  think  they  called  it)  ;  the  best 

room 

Stifling  with  cellar  damp,  shut  from  the  air 
In  hot  midsummer,  bookless,  pictureless 
Save  the  inevitable  sampler  hung 
Over  the  fireplace,  or  a  mourning  piece, 
A  green-haired  woman,  peony-cheeked,  beneath 
Impossible  willows  ;  the  wide-throated  hearth 
Bristling  with  faded  pine-boughs  half  concealing 
The  piled-up  rubbish  at  the  chimney's  back  ; 
And,  in  sad  keeping  with  all  things  about  them, 
Shrill,  querulous  women,  sour  and  sullen  men, 
Untidy,  loveless,  old  before  their  time, 
With  scarce  a  human  interest  save  their  own 
Monotonous  round  of  small  economies, 
Or  the  poor  scandal  of  the  neighborhood  ; 
Blind  to  the  beauty  everywhere  revealed, 
Treading  the  May-flowers  with  regardless  feet ; 
For  them  the  song-sparrow  and  the  bobolink 
Sang  not,  nor  winds  made  music  in  the  leaves ; 
1  For  them  in  vain  October's  holocaust 
Burned,  gold  and  crimson,  over  all  the  hills, 
The  sacramental  mystery  of  the  woods. 
Church-goers,  fearful  of  the  unseen  Powers, 
But  grumbling  over  pulpit-tax  and  pew-rent, 
Saving,  as  shrewd  economists,  their  souls 
And  winter  pork  with  the  least  possible  outlay 
Of  salt  and  sanctity  ;  in  daily  life 
Showing  as  little  actual  comprehension 
Of  Christian  charity  and  love  and  duty, 
As  if  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  had  been 
Outdated  like  a  last  year's  almanac  : 
Rich  in  broad  woodlands  and  in  half-tilled  fields, 
And  yet  so  pinched  and  bare  and  comfortless, 
The  veriest  straggler  limping  on  his  rounds, 
The  sun  and  air  his  sole  inheritance, 
Laughed  at  a  poverty  that  paid  its  taxes, 
And  hugged  his  rags  in  self-complacency  ! 

Nor  such  should  be  the  homesteads  of  a  land 
Where  whoso  wisely  wills  and  acts  may  dwell 
As  king  and  lawgiver,  in  broad-acred  state, 
With  beauty,  art,  taste,  culture,  books,  to  make 
His  hour  of  leisure  richer  than  a  life 


AMONG  THE  HILLS. 


Of  fourscore  to  the  barons  of  old  time, 

Our  yeoman  should  be  equal  to  his  home 

Set  in  the  fair,  green  valleys,  purple  walled, 

A  man  to  match  his  mountains,  not  to  creep 

Dwarfed  and  abased  below  them.     I  would  fain 

In  this  light  way  (of  which  I  needs  must  own 

With  the  knife-grinder  of  whom  Canning  sings, 

"  Story,  God  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell  you  !  ") 

Invite  the  eye  to  see  and  heart  to  feel 

The  beauty  and  the  joy  within  their  reach, — 

Home,  and  home  loves,  and  the  beatitudes 

Of  nature  free  to  all.     Haply  in  years 

That  wait  to  take  the  places  of  our  own, 

Heard  where  some  breezy  balcony  looks  down 

On  happy  homes,  or  where  the  lake  in  the  moon 

Sleeps  dreaming  of  the  mountains,  fair  as  Ruth, 

In  the  old  Hebrew  pastoral,  at  the  feet 

Of  Boaz,  even  this  simple  lay  of  mine 

May  seem  the  burden  of  a  prophecy, 

Finding  its  late  fulfilment  in  a  change 

Slow  as  the  oak's  growth,  lifting  manhood  up 

Through  broader  culture,  finer  manners,  love, 

And  reverence,  to  the  level  of  the  hills. 

O  Golden  Age,  whose  light  is  of  the  dawn, 

And  not  of  sunset,  forward,  not  behind, 

Flood  the  new  heavens  and  earth,  and  with  thee 

bring 

All  the  old  virtues,  whatsoever  things 
Are  pure  and  honest  and  of  good  repute, 
But  add  thereto  whatever  bard  has  sung 
Or  seer  has  told  of  when  in  trance  and  dream 
They  saw  the  Happy  Isles  of  prophecy  ! 
Let  Justice  hold  her  scale,  and  Truth  divide 
Between  the  right  and  wrong  ;  but  give  the  heart  • 
The  freedom  of  its  fair  inheritance  ; 
Let  the  poor  prisoner,  cramped  and  starved  so 

long, 

At  Nature's  table  feast  his  ear  and  eye 
With  joy  and  wonder  ;  let  all  harmonies 
Of  sound,  form,  color,  motion,  wait  upon 
The  princely  guest,  whether  in  soft  attire 
Of  leisure  clad,  or  the  coarse  frock  of  toil, 
And,  lending  life  to  the  dead  form  of  faith, 
Give  human  nature  reverence  for  the  sake 
Of  One  who  bore  it,  making  it  divine 
With  the  ineffable  tenderness  of  God ; 
Let  common  need,  the  brotherhood  of  prayer, 
The  heirship  of  an  unknown  destiny, 
The  unsolved  mystery  round  about  us,  make 
A  man  more  precious  than  the  gold  of  Ophir. 
Sacred,  inviolate,  unto  whom  all  things 
Should  minister,  as  outward  types  and  signs 
Of  the  eternal  beauty  which  fulfils 
The  one  great  purpose  of  creation,  Love, 
The  sole  necessity  of  Earth  and  Heaven ! 


AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

FOR  weeks  the  clouds  had  raked  the  hillp 
And  vexed  the  vales  with  raining, 

And  all  the  woods  were  sad  with  mist, 
And  all  the  brooks  complaining. 

At  last,  a  sudden  night-storm  tore 

The  mountain  veils  asunder, 
And  swept  the  valley  clean  before 

The  besom  of  the  thunder. 

Through  Sandwich  notch  the  west- wind  sang 

Good  morrow  to  the  cotter  ; 
And  once  again  Chocorua's  horn 

Of  shadow  pierced  the  water. 


Above  his  broad  lake  Ossipee, 
Once  more  the  sunshine  wearing, 

Stooped,  tracing  on  that  silver  shield 
His  grim  armorial  bearing. 

Clear  drawn  against  the  hard  blue  sky 
The  peaks  had  winter's  keenness ; 

And,  close  on  autumn's  frost,  the  vales 
Had  more  than  June's  fresh  greenness. 

Again  the  sodden  forest  floors 
With  golden  lights  were  checkered, 

Once  more  rejoicing  leaves  in  wind 
And  sunshine  danced  and  flickered. 

It  was  as  if  the  summer's  late 

Atoning  for  its  sadness 
Had  borrowed  every  season's  charm 

To  end  its  days  in  gladness. 

I  call  to  mind  those  banded  vales 

Of  shadow  and  of  shining, 
Through  which,  my  hostess  at  my  side, 

I  drove  in  day's  declining. 

We  held  our  sideling  way  above 

The  river's  whitening  shallows, 
By  homesteads  old,  with  wide-flung  barns 

Swept  through  and  through  by  swallows, — 

By  maple  orchards,  belts  of  pine 

And  larches  climbing  darkly 
The  mountain  slopes,  and,  over  all, 

The  great  peaks  rising  starkly. 

You  should  have  seen  that  long  hill-range 
With  gaps  of  brightness  riven, — 

How  through  each  pass  and  hollow  streamed 
The  purpling  lights  of  heaven, — 

Rivers  of  gold-mist  flowing  down 

From  far  celestial  fountains, — 
The  great  sun  flaming  through  the  rifts 

Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains ! 

We  paused  at  last  where  home-bound  cows 
Brought  down  the  pasture's  treasure, 

And  in  the  barn  the  rhythmic  flails 
Beat  out  a  harvest  measure. 

We  heard  the  night-hawk's  sullen  plunge, 
The  crow  his  tree-mates  calling  : 

The  shadows  lengthening  down  the  slopes 
About  our  feet  were  falling. 

And  through  them  smote  the  level  sun 

In  broken  lines  of  splendor, 
Touched  the  gray  rocks  and  made  the  green 

Of  the  shorn  grass  more  tender. 

The  maples  bending  o'er  the  gate, 

Their  arch  of  leaves  just  tinted 
With  yellow  warmth,  the  golden  glow 

Of  coming  autumn  hinted. 

Keen  white  between  the  farm-house  showed, 
And  smiled  on  porch  and  trellis, 

The  fair  democracy  of  flowers 
That  equals  cot  and  palace. 

And  weaving  garlands  for  her  dog, 

'Twixt  eludings  and  caresses, 
A  human  flower  of  childhood  shook 

The  sunshine  from  her  tresses. 

On  either  hand  we  saw  the  signs 

Of  fancy  and  of  shrewdness, 
Where  taste  had  wound  its  arms  of  vines 

Round  thrift's  uncomely  rudeness. 


AMONG  THE  HILLS. 


237 


The  sun-brown  farmer  in  his  frock 
Shook  hands,  and  called  to  Mary  : 

Bare- armed,  as  Juno  might,  she  came, 
White-aproned  from  her  dairy. 

Her  air,  her  smile,  her  motions,  told 
Of  womanly  completeness ; 

A  music  as  of  household  songs 
Was  in  her  voice  of  sweetness. 

Not  beautiful  in  curve  and  line, 
But  something  more  and  better, 

The  secret  charm  eluding  art, 
Its  spirit,  not  its  letter ; — 

An  inborn  grace  that  nothing  lacked 

Of  culture  or  appliance, — 
The  warmth  of  genial  courtesy, 
The  calm  of  self-reliance. 

Before  her  queenly  womanhood 
How  dared  our  hostess  utter 

The  paltry  errand  of  her  need 
To  buy  her  fresh-churned  butter  ? 

She  led  the  way  with  housewife  pride, 
Her  goodly  store  disclosing, 

Full  tenderly  the  golden  balls 
With  practised  hands  disposing. 

Then,  while  along  the  western  hills 
We  watched  the  changeful  glory 


Of  sunset,  on  our  homeward  way, 
I  heard  her  simple  story. 

The  early  crickets  sang  ;  the  stream 
Plashed  through  my  friend's  narration  : 

Her  rustic  patois  of  the  hills 
Lost  in  my  free  translation. 

"'  More  wise,"  she  said,  "than  those  who  swarm 

Our  hills  in  middle  summer, 
She  came,  when  June's  first  roses  blow, 

To  greet  the  early  comer. 

"  From  school  and  ball  and  rout  she  came, 

The  city's  fair,  pale  daughter, 
To  drink  the  wine  of  mountain  air 

Beside  the  Bearcamp  Water. 

"Her  step  grew  firmer  on  the  hills 
That  watch  our  homesteads  over  ; 

On  cheek  and  lip,  from  summer  fields, 
She  caught  the  bloom  of  clover. 

"  For  health  comes  sparkling  in  the  streams 

From  cool  Chocorua  stealing  : 
There  's  iron  in  our  Northern  winds  ; 

Our  pines  are  trees  of  healing. 

1 '  She  sat  beneatli  the  broad-armed  elms 

That  skirt  the  mowing-meadow, 
And  watched  the  gentle  west-wind  weave 

The  grass  with  shine  and  shadow. 


Upon  his  pitchfcrk  leaning.1 


238 


AMONG  THE  HILLS. 


"  Beside  her,  from  the  summer  heat 
To  share  her  grateful  screening, 

With  forehead  bared,  the  farmer  stood, 
Upon  his  pitchfork  leaning. 

"  Framed  in  its  damp,  dark  locks,  his  face 
Had  nothing  mean  or  common, — 

Strong,  manly,  true,  the  tenderness 
And  pride  beloved  of  woman. 

"  She  looked  up,  glowing  with  the  health 
The  country  air  had  brought  her, 

And,  laughing,  said  :   '  You  lack  a  wife, 
Your  mother  lacks  a  daughter. 

' ' '  To  mend  your  frock  and  bake  your  bread 

You  do  not  need  a  lady  : 
Be  sure  among  these  brown  old  homes 

Is  some  one  waiting  ready, — 

u  '  Some  fair,  sweet  girl  with  skilful  hand 
And  cheerful  heart  for  treasure, 

Who  never  played  with  ivory  keys, 
Or  danced  the  polka's  measure. ' 

"  He  bent  his  black  brows  to  a  frown. 

He  set  his  white  teeth  tightly. 
1  'T  is  well,'  he  said,  '  for  one  like  you 

To  choose  for  me  so  lightly. 

"  '  You  think,  because  my  life  is  rude 

I  take  no  note  of  sweetness  : 
I  tell  you  love  has  naught  to  do 

With  meetness  or  unmeetness. 

u  'Itself  its  best  excuse,  it  asks 

No  leave  of  pride  or  fashion 
When  silken  zone  or  homespun  frock 

It  stirs  with  throbs  of  passion. 

u  '  You  think  me  deaf  and  blind  :  you  bring 

Your  winning  graces  hither 
As  free  as  if  from  cradle-time 

We  two  had  played  together. 

u  '  You  tempt  me  with  your  laughing  eyes, 
Your  cheek  of  sundown's  blushes, 

A  motion  as  of  waving  grain, 
A  music  as  of  thrushes. 

"  'The  plaything  of  your  summer  sport, 
The  spells  you  weave  around  me 

You  cannot  at  your  will  undo, 
Nor  leave  me  as  you  found  me. 

''  '  You  go  as  lightly  as  you  came, 

Your  life  is  well  without  me  ; 
What  care  you  that  these  hills  will  close 

Like  prison- walls  before  me  ? 

u  '  No  mood  is  mine  to  seek  a  wife, 

Or  daughter  for  my  mother : 
Who  loves  you  loses  in  that  love 

All  power  to  love  another  ! 

1  '  I  dare  your  pity  or  your  scorn, 
With  pride  your  own  exceeding  ; 
I  fling  my  heart  into  your  lap 
Without  a  word  of  pleading.' 

"  She  looked  up  in  his  face  of  pain 

So  archy,  yet  so  tender  : 
1  And  if  I  lend  you  mine,'  she  said, 

'  Will  you  forgive  the  lender  ? 

u  '  Nor  frock  nor  tan  can  hide  the  man  ; 

And  see  you  not,  my  farmer, 
How  weak  and  fond  a  woman  waits 

Behind  this  silken  armor  ? 


"  'I  love  you:  on  that  love  alone, 

And  not  my  worth,  presuming, 
Will  you  not  trust  for  summer  fruit 

The  tree  in  May-day  blooming  V  ' 

"Alone  the  hangbird  overhead, 
His  hair-swung  cradle  straining, 

Looked  down  to  see  love's  miracle, — 
The  giving  that  is  gaining. 

"  And  so  the  farmer  found  a  wife, 

His  mother  found  a  daughter  : 
There  looks  no  happier  home  than  hers 

On  pleasant  Bearcamp  water. 

"  Flowers  spring  to  blossom  where  she  walks 

The  careful  ways  of  duty  ; 
Our  hard,  stiff'  lines  of  life  with  her 

Are  flowing  curves  of  beauty 

"  Our  homes  are  cheerier  for  her  sake, 
Our  door-yards  brighter  blooming, 

And  all  about  the  social  air 
Is  sweeter  for  her  coming. 

"  Unspoken  homilies  of  peace 

Her  daily  life  is  preaching ; 
The  still  refreshment  of  the  dew 

Is  her  unconscious  teaching. 

u  And  never  tenderer  hand  than  hers 

Unknits  the  brow  of  ailing  ; 
Her  garments  to  the  sick  man's  ear 

Have  music  in  their  trailing. 

"  And  when,  in  pleasant  harvest  moons, 

The  youthful  huskers  gather, 
Or  sleigh-drives  on  the  mountain  ways 

Defy  the  winter  weather, — 

"  In  sugar-camps,  when  south  and  warm 
The  winds  of  March  are  blowing, 

And  sweetly  from  its  thawing  veins 
The  maple's  blood  is  flowing, — 

"  In  summer,  where  some  lilied  pond 

Its  virgin  zone  is  bearing, 
Or  where  the  ruddy  autumn  fire 

Lights  up  the  apple-paring, — 

"  The  coarseness  of  a  ruder  time 

Her  finer  mirth  displaces, 
A  subtler  sense  of  pleasure  fills 

Each  rustic  sport  she  graces. 

"  Her  presence  lends  its  warmth  and  health 

To  all  who  come  before  it. 
If  woman  lost  us  Eden,  such 

As  she  alone  restore  it 


u  For  larger  life  and  wiser  aims 

The  farmer  is  her  debtor  ; 
W"ho  holds  to  his  another's  heart 

Must  needs  be  worse  or  better. 

"  Through  her  his  civic  service  shows 

A  purer-toned  ambition ; 
No  double  consciousness  divides 

The  man  and  politician. 

"  In  party's  doubtful  ways  he  trusts 
Her  instincts  to  determine  ; 

At  the  loud  polls,  the  thought  of  her 
Recalls  Christ's  Mountain  Sermon. 

"  He  owns  her  logic  of  the  heart, 

And  wisdom  of  unreason, 
Supplying,  while  he  doubts  and  weighs 

The*  needed  word  in  season, 


THE  CLEAR  VISION. 


239 


u  He  sees  with  pride  her  richer  thought, 

Her  fancy's  freer  ranges  ; 
And  love  thus  deepened  to  respect 

Is  proof  against  all  changes. 

"  And  if  she  walks  at  ease  in  ways 

His  feet  are  slow  to  travel, 
And  if  she  reads  with  cultured  eyes 

What  his  may  scarce  unravel, 

"Still  clearer,  for  her  keener  sight 

Of  beauty  and  of  wonder, 
He  learns  the  meaning  of  the  hills 

He  dwelt  from  childhood  under. 

u  And  higher,  warmed  with  summer  lights, 

Or  winter-crowned  and  hoary, 
The  ridged  horizon  lifts  for  him 

Its  inner  veils  of  glory. 

"  He  has  his  own  free,  bookless  lore, 
The  lessons  nature  taught  him, 

The  wisdom  which  the  woods  and  hills 
And  toiling  men  have  brought  him : 

"  The  steady  force  of  will  whereby 
Her  flexile  grace  seems  sweeter ; 
The  sturdy  counterpoise  which  makes 
Her  woman's  life  completer  : 

"  A  latent  fire  of  soul  which  lacks 

No  breath  of  love  to  fan  it ; 
And  wit,  that,  like  his  native  brooks, 

Plays  over  solid  granite. 

"How  dwarfed  against  his  manliness 

She  sees  the  poor  pretension, 
The  wants,  the  aims,  the  follies,  born 

Of  fashion  and  convention  ! 

u  How  life  behind  its  accidents 
Stands  strong  and  self-sustaining, 

The  human  fact  transcending  all 
The  losing  and  the  gaining. 

"And  so,  in  grateful  interchange 

Of  teacher  and  of  hearer, 
Their  lives  their  true  distinctness  keep 

While  daily  drawing  nearer. 

"And  if  the  husband  or  the  wife 
In  home's  strong  light  discovers 

Such  slight  defaults  as  failed  to  meet 
The  blinded  eyes  of  lovers, 


"  Why  need  we  care  to  ask  ? — who  dreams 
Without  their  thorns  of  roses, 

Or  wonders  that  the  truest  steel 
The  readiest  spark  discloses  ? 

"  For  still  in  mutual  sufferance  lies 

The  secret  of  true  living  : 
Love  scarce  is  love  that  never  knows 

The  sweetness  of  forgiving. 

"  We  send  the  Squire  to  General  Court, 
He  takes  his  young  wife  thither  ; 

No  prouder  man  election  day 
Rides  through  the  sweet  June  weather. 

"  He  sees  with  eyes  of  manly  trust 

All  hearts  to  her  inclining ; 
Not  less  for  him  his  household  light 

That  others  share  its  shining." 

Thus  while  my  hostess  spake,  there  grew 

Before  me,  warmer  tinted 
And  outlined  with  a  tenderer  grace, 

The  picture  that  she  hinted. 

The  sunset  smouldered  as  we  drove 
Beneath  the  deep  hill-shadows. 

Below  us  wreaths  of  white  fog  walked 
Like  ghosts  the  haunted  meadows. 

Sounding  the  summer  night,  the  stars 
Dropped  down  their  golden  plummets  ; 

The  pale  arc  of  the  Northern  lights 
Rose  o'er  the  mountain  summits, — 

Until,  at  last,  beneath  its  bridge, 
We  heard  the  Bearcamp  flowing, 

And  saw  across  the  maple  lawn 
The  welcome  home-lights  glowing  ; — 

And,  musing  on  the  tale  I  heard, 
'T  were  well,  thought  I,  if  often 

To  rugged  farm-life  came  the  gift 
To  harmonize  and  soften  ; — 

If  more  and  more  we  found  the  troth 

Of  fact  and  fancy  plighted, 
And  culture's  charm  and  labor's  strength 

In  rural  homeiH'inited, — 

The  simple  life,  the  homely  hearth 
With  beauty's  sphere  surrounding, 

And  blessing  toil  where  toil  abounds 
With  graces  more  abounding. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  CLEAR  VISION. 

I  DID  but  dream !    I  never  knew 

What  charms  our  sternest  season  wore, 

Was  never  yet  the  sky  so  blue, 
Was  never  earth  so  white  before. 

Till  now  I  never  saw  the  glow 

Of  sunset  on  yon  hills  of  snow, 

And  never  learned  the  bough's  designs 

Of  beauty  in  its  leafless  lines. 

Did  ever  such  a  morning  break 
As  that  my  eastern  windows  see  V 

Did  ever  such  a  moonlight  take 
Weird  photographs  of  shrub  and  tree  V 


Rang  ever  bells  so  wild  and  fleet 
The  music  of  the  winter  street  V 
Was  ever  yet  a  sound  by  half 
So  merry  as  yon  school-boy's  laugh  ? 

O  Earth  !  with  gladness  overfraught, 

No  added  charm  thy  face  hath  found  ; 
Within  my  heart  the  change  is  wrought, 
My  footsteps  make  enchanted  ground. 
Forth  couch  of  pain  and  curtained  room 
Forth  to  thy  light  and  air  I  come, 
To  find  in  all  that  meets  my  eyes 
The  freshness  of  a  glad  surprise. 

Fair  seem  these  winter  days,  and  soon 
Shall  blow  the  warm  west-winds  of  spring 


240 


THE  DOLE  OF  JARL  THORKELL. 


To  set  the  unbound  rills  in  tune, 

And  hither  urge  the  bluebird's  wing. 
The  vales  shall  laugh  in  flowers,  the  woods 
Grow  misty  green  with  leafing  buds, 
And  violets  and  wind-flowers  sway 
Against  the  throbbing  heart  of  May. 

Break  forth,  my  lips,  in  praise,  and  own 

The  wiser  love  severely  kind  ; 
Since,  richer  for  its  chastening  grown, 

I  see,  whereas  I  once  was  blind. 
The  world,  O  Father  !  hath  not  wronged 
With  loss  the  life  by  thee  prolonged  ; 
But  still,  with  every  added  year, 
More  beautiful  thy  works  appear  ! 

As  thou  hast  made  thy  world  without, 

Make  thou  more  fair  my  world  within  ; 
Shine  through  its  lingering  clouds  of  doubt ; 

Rebuke  its  haunting  shapes  of  sin  ; 
Fill,  brief  or  long,  my  granted  span 
Of  life  with  love  to  thee  and  man  ; 
Strike  when  thou  wilt  the  hour  of  rest, 
But  let  my  last  days  be  my  best ! 

2d  mo.,  1868. 


THE  DOLE  OF  JARL  THORKELL. 

THE  land  was  pale  with  famine 

And  racked  with  fever-pain  ; 
The  frozen  fiords  were  fishless, 

The  earth  withheld  her  grain. 

Men  saw  the  boding  Fylgja 

Before  them  come  and  go, 
And,  through  their  dreams,  the  Urdar-moon 

From  west  to  east  sailed  slow ! 

Jarl  Thorkell  of  Thevera 

At  Yule-time  made  his  vow  ; 
On  Rykdal's  holy  Doom-stone 

He  slew  to  Frey  his  cow. 

To  bounteous  Frey  he  slew  her  ; 

To  Skuld,  the  younger  Norn, 
Who  watches  over  birth  and  death, 

He  gave  her  calf  unborn. 

And  his  little  gold-haired  daughter 

Took  up  the  sprinkling-rod, 
And  smeared  with  blood  the  temple 

And  the  wide  lips  of  the  god. 

Hoarse  below,  the  winter  water 

Ground  its  ice-blocks  o'er  and  o'er  ; 

Jets  of  foam,  like  ghosts  of  dead  waves, 
Rose  and  fell  along  the  shore. 

The  red  torch  of  the  Jokul, 

Aloft  in  icy  space, 
Shone  down  on  the  bloody  Horg-stones 

And  the  statue's  carven  face. 

And  closer  round  and  grimmer 

Beneath  its  baleful  light 
The  Jotun  shapes  of  mountains 

Came  crowding  through  the  night. 

The  gray-haired  Hersir  trembled 

As  a  flame  by  wind  is  blown  ; 
A  weird  power  moved  his  white  lips, 

And  their  voice  was  not  his  own  ! 

"  The  ^Esir  thirst !  "  he  muttered  ; 

"•  The  gods  must  have  more  blood 
Before  the  tun  shall  blossom 

Or  fish  shall  fill  the  flood. 


"  The  ^Esir  thirst  and  hunger, 
And  hence  are  blight  and  ban  ; 

The  mouths  of  the  strong  gods  water 
For  the  flesh  and  blood  of  man  ! 

' '  Whom  shall  we  give  the  strong  ones  ? 

Not  warriors,  sword  on  thigh  ; 
But  let  the  nursling  infant 

And  bedrid  old  man  die. " 

u  So  be  it !  "  cried  the  young  men, 
"  There  needs  nor  doubt  nor  parle  '1 ; 

But,  knitting  hard  his  red  brows, 
In  silence  stood  the  Jarl. 

A  sound  of  woman's  weeping 
At  the  temple  door  was  heard, 

But  the  old  men  bowed  their  white  heads, 
And  answered  not  a  word. 

Then  the  Dream-wife  of  Thingvalla, 

A  Vala  young  and  fair, 
Sang  softly,  stirring  with  her  breath 

The  veil  of  her  loose  hair. 

She  sang:   "  The  winds  from  Alfheim 

Bring  never  sound  of  strife  ; 
The  gifts  for  Frey  the  meetest 

Are  not  of  death,  but  life. 

u  He  loves  the  grass-green  meadows, 
The  grazing  kine's  sweet  breath  ; 

He  loathes  your  bloody  Horg-stones, 
Your  gifts  that  smell  of  death. 

u  No  wrong  by  wrong  is  righted, 

No  pain  is  cured  by  pain  ; 
The  blood  that  smokes  from  Doom-rings 

Falls  back  in  redder  rain. 

' '  The  gods  are  what  you  make  them, 
As  earth  shall  Asgard  prove  ; 

And  hate  will  come  of  hating, 
And  love  will  come  of  love. 

"  Make  dole  of  skyr  and  black  bread 
That  old  and  young  may  live  ; 

And  look  to  Frey  for  favor 
When  first  like  Frey  you  give. 

uEven  now  o'er  Njord's  sea-meadows 

The  summer  dawn  begins : 
The  tun  shall  have  its  harvest, 

The  fiord  its  glancing  fins." 

Then  up  and  swore  Jarl  Thorkell : 

"  By  Gimli  and  by  Hel, 
O  Vala  of  Thingvalla, 

Thou  singest  wise  and  well ! 

u  Too  dear  the  ^Esir's  favors 
Bought  with  our  children's  lives ; 

Better  die  than  shame  in  living 
Our  mothers  and  our  wives. 

' '  The  full  shall  give  his  portion 
To  htm  who  hath  most  need ; 

Of  curdled  skyr  and  black  bread 
Be  daily  dole  decreed." 

He  broke  from  off  his  neck-chain 

Three  links  of  beaten  gold  ; 
And  each  man,  at  his  bidding 

Brought  gifts  for  young  and  old. 

Then  mothers  nursed  their  children. 

And  daughters  fed  their  sires, 
And  Health  sat  down  with  Plenty 

Before  the  next  Yule  fires. 


THE  TWO  RABBIS.  — THE  MEETING. 


241 


The  Horg-stones  stand  in  Rykdal ; 

The  Doom-ring  still  remains  ; 
But  the  snows  of  a  thousand  winters 

Have  washed  away  the  stains. 

Christ  ruleth  now  ;  the  /Esir 
Have  found  their  twilight  dim  ; 

And,  wiser  than  she  dreamed,  of  old 
The  Vala  sang  of  Him  ! 


THE  TWO  RABBIS. 

THE  Rabbi  Nathan,  twoscore  years  and  ten, 
Walked  blameless  through  the  evil  world,  and 

then, 

Just  as  the  almond  blossomed  in  his  hair, 
Met  a  temptation  all  too  strong  to  bear, 
And  miserably  sinned.     So,  adding  not 
Falsehood  to  guilt,  he  left  his  seat,  and  taught 
No  more  among  the  elders,  but  went  out 
From  the  great  congregation  girt  about 
With  sackcloth,  and  with  ashes  on  his  head, 
Making  his  gray  locks  grayer.     Long  he  prayed, 
Smiting  his  breast ;  then,  as  the  Book  he  laid 
Open  before  him  for  the  Bath-Col's  choice, 
Pausing  to  hear  that  Daughter  of  a  Voice, 
Behold  the  royal  preacher's  words  :  *'  A  friend 
Loveth  at  all  times,  yea,  unto  the  end  ; 
And  for  the  evil  day  thy  brother  lives." 
Marvelling,  he  said  :   "  It  is  the  Lord  who  gives 
Counsel  in  need.     At  Ecbatana  dwells 
Rabbi  Ben  Isaac,  who  all  men  excels 
In  righteousness  and  wisdom,  as  the  trees 
Of  Lebanon  the  small  weeds  that  the  bees 
Bow  with  their  weight.     I  will  arise,  and  lay 
My  sins  before  him." 

And  he  went  his  way 

Barefooted,  fasting  long,  with  many  prayers  ; 
But  even  as  one  who,  .followed  unawares, 
Suddenly  in  the  darkness  feels  a  hand 
Thrill  with  its  touch  his  own,  and  his  cheek 

fanned 

By  odors  subtly  sweet,  and  whispers  near 
Of  words  he  loathes,  yet  cannot  choose  but  hear,  j 
So,  while  the  Rabbi  journeyed,  chanting  low 
The  wail  of  David's  penitential  woe, 
Before  him  still  the  old  temptation  came, 
And  mocked  him  with  the  motion  and  the  shame 
Of  such  desires  that,  shuddering,  he  abhorred 
Himself  ;  and,  crying  mightily  to  the  Lord 
To  free  his  soul  and  cast  the  demon  out, 
Smote  with  his  staff  the  blankness  round  about.     ! 

At  length,  in  the  low  light  of  a  spent  day, 
The  towers  of  Ecbatana  far  away 
Rose  on  the  desert's  rim  ;  and  Nathan,  faint 
And  footsore,  pausing  where  for  some  dead  saint 
The  faith  of  Islam  reared  a  domed  tomb, 
Saw  some  one  kneeling  in  the  shadow,  whom 
He  greeted  kindly  :  "  May  the  Holy  One 
Answer  thy  prayers,  O  stranger  !  "    Whereupon 
The  shape  stood  up  with  a  loud  cry,  and  then, 
Clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  the  two  gray  men 
Wept,  praising  Him  whose  gracious  providence 
Made  their  paths  one.     But  straightway,  as  the 

sense 

Of  his  transgression  smote  him,  Nathan  tore 
Himself  away  :   "  O  friend  beloved,  no  more 
Worthy  am  I  to  touch  thee,  for  I  came, 
Foul  from  my  sins,  to  tell  thee  all  my  shame. 
Haply  thy  prayers,  since  naught  availeth  mine, 
May  purge  my  soul,  and  make  it  white  like  thine. 
Pity  me,  O  Ben  Isaac,  I  have  sinned  !  " 

Awestruck  Ben  Isaac  stood.     The  desert  wind 
Blew  his  long  mantle  backward,  laying  bare 
The  mournful  secret  of  his  shirt  of  hair. 

16 


"  I  too,  O  friend,  if  not  in  act,"  he  said, 

' '  In  thought  have  verily  sinned.     Hast  thou  not 

read, 

'  Better  the  eye  should  see  than  that  desire 
Should  wander '  ?     Burning  with  a  hidden  fire 
That  tears  and  prayers  quench  not,  I  come  to  thee 
For  pity  and  for  help,  as  thou  to  me. 
Pray  for  me,  O  my  friend  !  "  but  Nathan  cried, 
"  Pray  thou  for  me,  Ben  Isaac  !  " 

Side  by  side 

In  the  low  sunshine  by  the  turban  stone 
They  knelt ;  each  made  his  brother's  woe  hisbwii, 
Forgetting,  in  the  agony  and  stress 
Of  pitying  love,  his  claim  of  selfishness  ; 
Peace,  for  his  friend  besought,  his  own  became  ; 
His  prayers  were  answered  in  another's  name  ; 
And,  when  at  last  they  rose  up  to  embrace, 
Each  saw  God's  pardon  in  his  brother's  face  ! 

Long  after,  when  his  headstone  gathered  moss, 
Traced  on  the  targum-marge  of  Onkelos 
In  Rabbi  Nathan's  hand  these  words  were  read 
"  Hope  not  the  cure  of  sin  till  Self  is  dead  ; 
Forget  it  in  love's  service,  and  the  debt 
Thou  canst  not  pay  the  angels  shall  forget  ; 
Heaven's  gate  is  shut  to  him  who  comes  alone  ; 
Save  thou  a  soul,  and  it  shall  save  thy  own  !  " 


THE  MEETING. 

THE  elder  folks  shook  hands  at  last, 

Down  seat  by  seat  the  signal  passed. 

To  simple  ways  like  ours  unused, 

Half  solemnized  and  half  amused, 

With  long-drawn  breath  and  shrug,  my  guest 

His  sense  of  glad  relief  expressed. 

Outside  the  hills  lay  warm  in  sun  ; 

The  cattle  in  the  meadow-run 

Stood  half-leg  deep  ;  a  single  bird 

The  green  repose  above  us  stirred. 

"  What  part  or  lot  have  you,"  he  said, 

"In  these  dull  rites  of  drowsy-head? 

Is  silence  worship  ?    Seek  it  where 

It  soothes  with  dreams  the  summer  air, 

Not  in  this  close  and  rude- benched  hall, 

But  where  soft  lights  and  shadows  fall, 

And  all  the  slow,  sleep-walking  hours 

Glide  soundless  over  grass  and  flowers  ! 

From  time  and  place  and  form  apart, 

Its  holy  ground  the  human  heart, 

Nor  ritual-bound  nor  templeward 

Walks  the  free  spirit  of  the  Lord  ! 

Our  common  Master  did  not  pen 

His  followers  up  from  other  men  ; 

His  service  liberty  indeed, 

He  built  no  church,  he  framed  no  creed  ; 

But  while  the  saintly  Pharisee 

Made  broader  his  phylactery, 

As  from  the  synagogue  was  seen 

The  dusty-sandalled  Nazarene 

Through  ripening  cornfields  lead  the  way 

Upon  the  awful  Sabbath  day, 

His  sermons  were  the  healthful  talk 

That  shorter  made  the  mountain-walk, 

His  wayside  texts  were  flowers  and  birds, 

Where  mingled  with  His  gracious  words 

The  rustle  of  the  tamarisk-tree 

And  ripple-wash  of  Galilee. " 

"  Thy  words  are  well,  0  friend,''  I  said  ; 

u  Unmeasured  and  unlimited, 

With  noiseless  slide  of  stone  to  stone, 

The  mystic  Church  of  God  has  grown. 

Invisible  and  silent  stands 

The  temple  never  made  with  hands, 

Unheard  the  voices  still  and  small 

Of  its  unseen  confessional. 


342 


THE  MEETING. 


He  needs  no  special  place  of  prayer 

Whose  hearing  ear  is  everywhere  ; 

He  brings  not  back  the  childish  days 

That  ringed  the  earth  with  stones  of  praise, 

Roofed  Karnak's  hall  of  gods,  and  laid 

The  plinths  of  Philae's  colonnade. 

Still  less  He  owns  the  selfish  good 

And  sickly  growth  of  solitude, — 

The  worthless  grace  that,  out  of  sight, 

Flowers  in  the  desert  anchorite ; 

Dissevered  from  the  suffering  whole, 

Love  hath  no  power  to  save  a  soul. 

Not  out  of  Self,  the  origin 

And  native  air  and  soil  of  sin, 

The  living  waters  spring  and  flow, 

The  trees  with  leaves  of  healing  grow. 

"  Dream  not,  O  friend,  because  1  seek 

This  quiet  shelter  twice  a  week, 

I  better  deem  its  pine-laid  floor 

Than  breezy  hill  or  sea-sung  shore  ; 

But  nature  is  not  solitude  : 

She  crowds  us  with  her  thronging  wood  ; 

Her  many  hands  reach  out  to  us, 

Her  many  tongues  are  garrulous  ; 

Perpetual  riddles  of  surprise 

She  offers  to  our  ears  and  eyes ; 

She  will  not  leave  our  senses  still, 

But  drags  them  captive  at  her  will : 

And,  making  earth  too  great  for  heaven, 

She  hides  the  Giver  in  the  given. 

"  And  so,  I  find  it  well  to  come 

For  deeper  rest  to  this  still  room, 

For  here  the  habit  of  the  soul 

Feels  less  the  outer  world's  control ; 

The  strength  of  mutual  purpose  pleads 

More  earnestly  our  common  needs  ; 

And  from  the  silence  multiplied 

By  these  ctill  forms  on  either  side, 

The  world  that  time  and  sense  have  known 

Falls  off  and  leaves  us  God  alone. 

"Yet  rarely  through  the  charmed  repose 
Unmixed  the  stream  of  motive  flows, 
A  flavor  of  its  many  springs, 
The  tints  of  earth  and  sky  it  brings  ; 
In  the  still  waters  needs  must  be 
Some  shade  of  human  sympathy  ; 
And  here,  in  its  accustomed  place, 
I  look  on  memory's  dearest  face  ; 
The  blind  by-sister  guesseth  not 
What  shadow  haunts  that  vacant  spot ; 
No  eyes  save  mine  alone  can  see 
The  love  wherewith  it  welcomes  me  ! 
And  still,  with  those  alone  my  kin, 
In  doubt  and  weakness,  want  and  sin, 
I  bow  my  head,  my  heart  I  bare 
As  when  that  face  was  living  there, 
And  strive  (too  oft,  alas  !  in  vain  !) 
The  peace  of  simple  trust  to  gain, 
Fold  fancy's  restless  wings,  and  lay 
The  idols  of  my  heart  away. 

'•  Welcome  the  silence  all  unbroken, 

Nor  less  the  words  of  fitness  spoken, — 

Such  golden  words  as  hers  for  whom 

Our  autumn  flowers  have  just  made  room  ; 

Whose  hopeful  utterance  through  and  through 

The  freshness  of  the  morning  blew  ; 

Who  loved  not  less  the  earth  that  light 

Fell  on  it  from  the  heavens  in  sight, 

But  saw  in  all  fair  forms  more  fair 

The  Eternal  beauty  mirrored  there. 

Whose  eighty  years  but  added  grace 

And  saintlier  meaning  to  her  face,  — 

The  look  of  one  who  bore  away 

Glad  tidings  from  the  hills  of  day, 

While  all  our  hearts  went  forth  to  meet 

The  coming  of  her  beautiful  feet ! 


Or  haply  hers,  whose  pilgrim  tread 

Is  in  the  path  where  Jesus  led  ; 

Who  dreams  her  childhood's  sabbath  dream 

By  Jordan's  willow-shaded  stream, 

And,  of  the  hymns  of  hope  and  faith, 

Sung  by  the  monks  of  Nazareth, 

Hears  pious  echoes,  in  the  call 

To  prayer,  from  Moslem  minarets  fall, 

Repeating  where  his  works  were  wrought 

The  lesson  that  her  Master  taught. 

Of  whom  an  elder  Sibyl  gave, 

The  prophecies  of  Cumae's  cave  ! 

UI  ask  no  organ's  soulless  breath 

To  drone  the  themes  of  life  and  death, 

No  altar  candle-lit  by  day, 

No  ornate  wordsman's  rhetoric-play, 

No  cool  philosophy  to  teach 

Its  bland  audacities  of  speech 

To  double-tasked  idolaters 

Themselves  their  gods  and  worshippers, 

No  pulpit  hammered  by  the  fist 

Of  loud-asserting  dogmatist, 

Who  borrows  from  the  hand  of  love 

The  smoking  thunderbolts  of  Jove. 

1  know  how  well  the  fathers  taught, 

What  work  the  later  schoolmen  wrought ; 

I  reverence  old-time  faith  and  men, 
But  God  is  near  us  now  as  then ; 
His  force  of  love  is  still  unspent, 
His  hate  of  sin  as  imminent ; 

And  still  the  measure  of  our  needs 

Outgrows  the  cramping  bounds  of  creeds ; 

The  manna  gathered  yesterday 

Already  savors  of  decay  ; 

Doubts  to  the  world's  child-heart  unknown 

Question  us  now  from  star  and  stone; 

Too  little  or  too  much  we  know, 

And  sight  is  swift  and  faith  is  slow  ; 

The  power  is  lost  to  self -deceive 

With  shallow  forms  of  make-believe. 

We  walk  at  high  noon,  and  the  bells 

Call  to  a  thousand  oracles, 

But  the  sound  deafens,  and  the  light 

Is  stronger  than  our  dazzled  sight; 

The  letters  of  the  sacred  Book 

Glimmer  and  swim  beneath  our  look ; 

Still  struggles  in  the  Age's  breast 

With  deepening  agony  of  quest 

The  old  entreaty  :   k  Art  thou  He, 

Or  look  we  for  the  Christ  to  be  ? ' 

II  God  should  be  most  where  man  is  least : 
So,  where  is  neither  church  nor  priest, 
And  never  rag  of  form  or  creed 

To  clothe  the  nakedness  of  need, — 

Where  farmer-folk  in  silence  meet, — 

I  turn  my  bell-unsummoned  feet ; 

I  lay  the  critic's  glass  aside, 

I  tread  upon  my  lettered  pride, 

And,  lowest-seated,  testify 

To  the  oneness  of  humanity  ; 

Confess  the  universal  want, 

And  share  whatever  Heaven  may  grant. 

He  findeth  not  who  seeks  his  own, 

The  soul  is  lost  that 's  saved  alone. 

Not  on  one  favored  forehead  fell 

Of  old  the  fire-tongued  miracle, 

But  flamed  o'er  all  the  thronging  host 

The  baptism  of  the  holy  Ghost ; 

Heart  answers  heart :  in  one  desire 

The  blending  lines  of  prayer  aspire  ; 

'Where,  in  my  name,  meet  two  or  threo, 

Our  Lord  hath  said,  kl  there  will  be  ! ' 

"So  sometimes  comes  to  soul  and  sense 
The  feeling  which  is  evidence 
That  very  near  about  us  lies 
The  realm  of  spiritual  mysteries. 


THE  ANSWER.— G.  L.  S. 


243 


The  sphere  of  the  supernal  powers 
Impinges  on  this  world  of  ours. 
The  low  and  dark  horizon  lifts, 
To  light  the  scenic  terror  shifts  ; 
The  breath  of  a  diviner  air 
Blows  down  the  answer  of  a  prayer : 
That  all  our  sorrow,  pain,  and  doubt 
A  great  compassion  clasps  about, 
And  law  and  goodness,  love  and  force, 
Are  wedded  fast  beyond  divorce. 
Then  duty  leaves  to  love  its  task, 
The  beggar  Self  forgets  to  ask  ; 
With  smile  of  trust  and  folded  hands, 
The  passive  soul  in  waiting  stands 
To  feel,  as  flowers  the  sun  and  dew, 
The  One  true  Life  its  own  renew. 

"So,  to  the  calmly  gathered  thought 

The  innermost  of  truth  is  taught, 

The  mystery  dimly  understood, 

That  love  of  God  is  love  of  good, 

And,  chiefly,  its  divinest  trace 

In  Him  of  Nazareth's  holy  face  ; 

That  to  be  saved  is  only  this, — 

Salvation  from  our  selfishness, 

From  more  than  elemental  fire, 

The  soul's  unsanctified  desire, 

From  sin  itself,  and  not  the  pain 

That  warns  us  of  its  chafing  chain  ; 

That  worship's  deeper  meaning  lies 

In  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice, 

Not  proud  humilities  of  sense 

And  posturing  of  penitence, 

But  love's  unforced  obedience  ; 

That  Book  and  Church  and  Day  are  given 

For  man,  not  God, — for  earth,  not  heaven, - 

The  blessed  means  to  holiest  ends, 

Not  masters,  but  benignant  friends; 

That  the  dear  Christ  dwells  not  afar, 

The  king  of  some  remoter  star, 

Listening,  at  times,  with  flattered  ear 

To  homage  wrung  from  selfish  fear, 

But  here,  amidst  the  poor  and  blind, 

The  bound  and  suffering  of  our  kind, 

In  works  we  do,  in  prayers  we  pray, 

Life  of  our  life,  he  lives  to-day." 


THE  ANSWER. 

SPARE  me,  dread  angel  of  reproof, 
And  let  the  sunshine  weave  to-day 

Its  gold-threads  in  the  warp  and  woof 
Of  life  so  poor  and  gray. 

Spare  me  awhile  ;  the  flesh  is  weak. 

These  lingering  feet,  that  fain  would  stray 
Among  the  flowers,  shall  some  day  seek 

The  strait  and  narrow  way. 

Take  off  thy  ever-watchful  eye, 
The  awe  of  thy  rebuking  frown  ; 

The  dullest  slave  at  times  must  sigh 
To  fling  his  burdens  down  ; 

To  drop  his  galley's  straining  oar, 

And  press,  in  summer  warmth  and  calm, 

The  lap  of  some  enchanted  shore 
Of  blossom  and  of  balm. 

Grudge  not  my  life  its  hour  of  bloom, 
My  heart  its  taste  of  long  desire  ; 

This  day  be  mine  :  be  those  to  come 
As  duty  shall  require. 

The  deep  voice  answered  to  my  own, 
Smiting  my  selfish  prayers  away  ; 

u  To-morrow  is  with  God  alone, 
And  man  hath  but  to-day. 


"  Say  not,  thy  fond,  vain  heart  within, 
The  Father's  arm  shall  still  be  wide, 

When  from  these  pleasant  ways  of  sin 
Thou  turn'st  at  eventide. 

"  'Cast  thyself  down,'  the  tempter  saith, 
1  And  angels  shall  thy  feet  upbear. ' 

He  bids  thee  make  a  lie  of  faith, 
And  blasphemy  of  prayer. 

"  Though  God  be  good  and  free  be  Heaven, 
No  force  divine  can  love  compel ; 

And,  though  the  song  of  sins  forgiven 
May  sound  through  lowest  hell, 

"  The  sweet  persuasion  of  His  voice 

Respects  thy  sanctity  of  will. 
He  giveth  day  :  thou  hast  thy  choice 

To  walk  in  darkness  still ; 

1 '  As  one  who,  turning  from  the  light, 
Watches  his  own  gray  shadow  fall, 

Doubting,  upon  his  path  of  night, 
If  there  be  day  at  all ! 

"  No  word  of  doom  may  shut  thee  out, 
No  wind  of  wrath  may  downward  whirl, 

No  swords  of  fire  keep  watch  about 
The  open  gates  of  pearl ; 

u  A  tenderer  light  than  moon  or  sun, 
Than  song  of  earth  a  sweeter  hymn, 

May  shine  and  sound  forever  on, 
And  thou  be  deaf  and  dim. 

"  Forever  round  the  Mercy-seat 
The  guiding  lights  of  Love  shall  burn  ; 

But  what  if,  habit-bound,  thy  feet 
Shall  lack  the  will  to  turn  '? 

"  What  if  thine  eye  refuse  to  see, 
Thine  ear  of  Heaven's  free  welcome  fail, 

And  thou  a  willing  captive  be, 
Thyself  thy  own  dark  jail  ? 

"  O  doom  beyond  the  saddest  guess, 
As  the  long  years  of  God  unroll 

To  make  thy  dreary  selfishness 
The  prison  of  a  soul ! 

"  To  doubt  the  love  that  fain  would  break 
The  fetters  from  thy  self -bound  limb  ; 

And  dream  that  God  can  thee  forsake 
As  thou  forsakest  him  !  " 


G.  L.  S. 

HE  has  done  the  work  of  a  true  man, — 
Crown  him,  honor  him,  love  him. 

Weep  over  him,  tears  of  woman. 
Stoop  manliest  brows  above  him  ! 

O  dusky  mothers  and  daughters, 
Vigils  of  mourning  keep  for  him  ! 

Up  in  the  mountains,  and  down  by  the  waters. 
Lift  up  your  voices  and  weep  for  him  ! 

For  the  warmest  of  hearts  is  frozen, 

The  freest  of  hands  is  still ; 
And  the  gap  in  our  picked  and  chosen 

The  long  years  may  not  fill. 

No  duty  could  overtask  him, 

No  need  his  will  outrun ; 
Or  ever  our  lips  could  ask  him, 

His  hands  the  work  had  done. 


244 


FREEDOM  IN  BRAZIL.— DIVINE  COMPASSION. 


He  forgot  his  own  soul  for  others, 
Himself  to  his  neighbor  lending  ; 

He  found  the  Lord  in  his  suffering  brothers, 
And  not  in  the  clouds  descending. 

So  the  bed  was  sweet  to  die  on, 

Whence  he  saw  the  doors  wide  swung 

Against  whose  bolted  iron 
The  strength  of  his  life  was  flung. 

And  he  saw  ere  his  eye  was  darkened 
The  sheaves  of  the  harvest-bringing, 

And  knew  while  his  ear  yet  hearkened 
The  voice  of  the  reapers  singing. 

Ah,  well ! — The  world  is  discreet ; 

There  are  plenty  to  pause  and  wait ; 
But  here  was  a  man  who  set  his  feet 

Sometimes  in  advance  of  fate, — 

Plucked  off  the  old  bark  when  the  inner 

Was  slow  to  renew  it, 
And  put  to  the  Lord's  work  the  sinner 

When  saints  failed  to  do  it. 

Never  rode  to  the  wrong's  redressing 

A  wor  thier' paladin. 
Shall  he  not  hear  the  blessing, 

"Good  and  faithful,  enter  in  !  " 


FREEDOM  IN  BRAZIL. 

WITH  clearer  light,  Cross  of  the  South,  shine 
forth 

In  blue  Brazilian  skies  ; 
And  thou,  O  river,  cleaving  half  the  earth 

From  sunset  to  sunrise, 
From  the  great  mountains  to  the  Atlantic  waves 

Thy  joy's  long  anthem  pour. 

Yet  a    few  days   (God  make  them  less ! )   and 
slaves 

Shall  shame  thy  pride  no  more. 
No  fettered  feet  thy  shaded  margins  press ; 

But  all  men  shall  walk  free 
Where  thou,  the  high-priest  of  the  wilderness, 

Hast  wedded  sea  to  sea. 

And  thou,    great-hearted  ruler,  through  whose 
mouth 

The  word  of  God  is  said, 

Once  more,   k'Let  there  be  light!" — Son  of  the 
South, 

Lift  up  thy  honored  head, 
Wear  unashamed  a  crown  by  thy  desert 

Moie  than  by  birth  thy  own, 
Careless  of  watch  and  ward ;  thou  art  begirt 

By  grateful  hearts  alone. 
The  moated  wall  and  battle-ship'  may  fail, 

But  safe  shall  justice  prove ; 
Stronger  than  greaves  of  brass  or  iron  mail 

The  panoply  of  love. 

Crowned  doubly   by  man's  blessing  and  God's 
grace, 

Thy  future  is  secure  ; 
Who  frees  a  people  makes  his  statue's  place 

In  Time's  Valhalla  sure. 
Lo !  from  his  Neva's  banks  the  Scythian  Czar 

Stretches  to  thee  his  hand, 
Who,  with  the  pencil  of  the  Northern  star, 

Wrote  freedom  on  his  land. 
And  he  whose  grave  is  holy  by  our  calm 

And  prairied  Sangamon, 
From  his  gaunt  hand  shall  drop  the  martyr's  palm 

To  greet  thee  with  l '  Well  done !  " 


And  thou,  O  Earth,  with  smiles  thy  face  make 
sweet, 

And  let  thy  wail  be  stilled, 
To  hear  the  Muse  of  i  rophecy  repeat 

Her  promise  half  fulfilled. 
The  Voice  that  spake  at  Nazareth  speaks  still, 

No  sound  thereof  hath  died  ; . 
Alike  thy  hope  and  Heaven's  eternal  will 

Shall  yet  be  satisfied. 
The  years  are  slow,  the  vision  tarrieth  long, 

And  far  the  end  may  be ; 
But,  one  by  one,  the  fiends  of  ancient  wrong 

Go  out  and  leave  thee  free. 


DIVINE  COMPASSION. 

LONG  since,  a  dream  of  heaven  I  had, 

And  still  the  vision  haunts  me  oft ; 
I  see  the  saints  in  white  robes  clad, 

The  martyrs  with  their  palms  aloft ; 
But  hearing'  still,  in  middle  song, 

The  ceaseless  dissonance  of  wrong  ; 
And  shrinking,  with  hid  faces,  from  the  strain 

Of  sad,  beseeching  eyes,  full  of  remorse  and 
pain. 

The  glad  song  falters  to  a  wail, 

The  harj  ing  sinks  to  low  lament ; 
Before  the  still  uplifted  veil 

I  see  the  crowned  foieheads  bent, 
Making  more  sweet  the  heavenly  air, 

With  breathings  of  unselfish  prayer ; 
And  a  Voice  saith  :   u  O  Pity  which  is  pain, 

O  Love  that  weeps,  fill  up  my  sufferings  which 
remain ! 

u  Shall  souls  redeemed  by  me  refuse 

To  share  my  sorrow  in  their  turn  ? 
Or,  sin-forgiven,  my  gift  abuse 

Of  peace  with  selfish  unconcern  ? 
Has  saintly  ease  no  pitying  care? 

Has  faith  no  work,  and  love  no  prayer  ? 
While  sin  remains,  and  souls  in  darkness  dwell. 

Can  heaven  itself  be  heaven,  and  look  unmoved 
on  hell  ?  " 

Then  through  the  Gates  of  Pain,  I  dream, 

A  wind  of  heaven  blows  coolly  in  ; 
Fainter  the  awful  discords  seem, 

The  smoke  of  torment  grows  more  thin, 
Tears  quench  the  burning  soil,  and  thence 

Spring  sweet,  pale  flowers  of  penitence ; 
And  through  the  dreary  realm  of  man's  despair, 

Star-crowned  an  angel  walks,  and  lo !   God's 
hope  is  there ! 

Is  it  a  dream  ?     Is  heaven  so  high 
That  pity  cannot  breathe  its  air  ? 


Its  happy  eyes  forever  dry, 

Its  holy  lip 
My  God!  my 

By  thy  free  grace  unmerited, 


Its  holy  lips  without  a  prayer  ! 
"«•  God  !  my  God  !  if  thither  led 


No  crown  nor  palm  be  mine,  but  let  me  keep 
A  heart  that  still  can  feel,  and  eyes  that  still 
can  weep. 


LINES  ON  A  FLY-LEAF. 

I  NEED  not  ask  thee,  for  my  sake, 
To  read  a  book  which  well  may  make 
Its  way  by  native  force  of  wit 
Without  my  manual  sign  to  it. 
Its  piquant  writer  needs  from  me 
No  gravely  masculine  guaranty. 


LINES  ON  A  FLY-LEAF.— HYMN. 


245 


And  well  might  laugh  her  merriest  laugh 

At  broken  spears  in  her  behalf  ; 

Yet,  spite  of  all  the  critics  tall, 

I  frankly  own  I  like  her  well. 

It  may  be  that  she  wields  a  pen 

Too  sharply  nibbed  for  thin-skinned  men, 

That  her  keen  arrows  search  and  try 

The  armor  joints  of  dignity, 

And,  though  alone  for  error  meant, 

Sing  through  the  air  irreverent. 

I  blame  her  not,  the  young  athlete 

Who  plants  her  woman's  tiny  feet, 

And  dares  the  chances  of  debate 

Where  bearded  men  might  hesitate, 

Who,  deeply  earnest,  seeing  well 

The  ludicrous  and  laughable, 

Mingling  in  eloquent  excess 

Her  anger  and  her  tenderness, 

And,  chiding  with  a  half -caress, 

Strives,  less  for  her  own  sex  than  ours, 

With  principalities  and  powers, 

And  points  us  upward  to  the  clear 

Sanned  heights  of  her  new  atmosphere. 

Heaven  mend  her  faults  ! — I  will  not  pause 
To  weigh  and  doubt  and  peck  at  flaws, 
Or  waste  my  pity  when  some  fool 
Pi-ovokes  her  measureless  ridicule. 
Strong-minded  is  she  ?     Better  so 
Than  dulness  set  for  sale  or  show, 
A  household  folly,  capped  and  belled 
In  fashion's  dance  of  puppets  held, 
Or  poor  pretence  of  womanhoo  ', 
Whose  formal,  flavorless  platitude 
Is  warranted  from  all  offence 
Of  robust  meaning's  violence. 
Give  me  the  wine  of  thought  whose  bead 
Sparkles  along  the  page  I  read. 
Electric  words  in  which  I  find 
The  tonic  of  the  northwest  wind, — 
The  wisdom  which  itself  allies 
To  sweet  and  pure  humanities, 
Where  scorn  of  meanness,  hate  of  wrong, 
Are  underlaid  by  love  as  strong ; 
The  genial  play  of  mirth  that  lights 
Grave  themes  of  thought,  as,  when  on  nights 
Of  summer-time,  the  harmless  blaze 
Of  thunderless  heat-lightning  plays, 
And  tree  and  hill-top  resting  dim 
And  doubtful  on  the  sky's  vague  rim, 
.Touched  by  that  soft  and  lambent  gleam, 
Start  sharply  outlined  from  their  dream. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  woman's  sphere, 
Nor  point  with  Scripture  texts  a  sneer, 
Nor  wrong  the  manliest  saint  of  all 
By  doubt,  if  he  were  here,  that  Paul 
Would  own  the  heroines  who  have  lent 
Grace  to  truth's  stern  arbitrament, 
Foregone  tho  praise  to  woman  sweet, 
And  cast  their  crowns  at  Duty's  feet ; 


Like  her,  who  by  her  strong  Appeal 

Made  Fashion  weep  and  Mammon  feel, 

Who,  earliest  summoned  to  withstand 

The  color-madness  of  the  land, 

Counted  her  1  f  e-long  losses  gain, 

And  made  her  own  her  sisters'  pain  ; 

Or  her  who,  in  her  greenwood  shade, 

Heard  the  sharp  call  that  Freedom  made, 

And,  answering,  struck  from  Sappho's  lyre 

Of  love  the  Tyrtsean  carmen's  fire  : 

Or  that  young  girl, — Domremy's  maid 

Revived  a  nobler  cause  to  aid, — 

Shaking  from  warning  finger-tips 

The  doom  of  her  apocalypse  ; 

Or  her,  who  world-wide  entrance  gave 

To  the  log-cabin  of  the  slave, 

Made  all  his  want  arid  sorrow  known, 

And  all  earth's  langaages  his  own. 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  HOUSE  OF  WORSHIP   AT   GEORGETOWN. 
ERECTED   IN   MEMORY   OF  A   MOTHER. 

THOU  dwellest  not,  O  Lord  of  all ! 

In  temples  which  thy  children  raise  ; 
Our  work  to  thine  is  mean  and  small, 

And  brief  to  thy  eternal  days. 

Forgive  the  weakness  and  the  pride, 
If  marred  thereby  our  gift  may  be, 

For  love,  at  least,  has  sanctified 
The  altar  that  we  rear  to  thee. 

The  heart  and  not  the  hand  has  wrought 
From  sunken  base  to  tower  above 

The  image  of  a  tender  thought, 
The  memory  of  a  deathless  love  ! 

And  though  should  never  sound  of  speech 

Or  organ  echo  from  its  wall, 
Its  stones  would  pious  lessons  teach, 

Its  shades  in  benedictions  fall. 

Here  should  the  dove  of  peace  be  found, 
And  bl  jssings  and  not  curses  given  ; 

Nor  strife  profane,  nor  hatred  wound, 
The  mingle  I  loves  of  earth  and  heaven. 

Thou,  who  didst  soothe  with  dying  breath 
The  dear  one  watching  by  thy  cross, 

Forgetful  of  the  pains  of  death 
In  sorrow  for  her  mighty  loss, 

In  memory  of  that  tender  claim, 
O  Mother-born,  the  offering  take, 

And  make  it  worthy  of  thy  name, 
And  bless  it  for  a  mother's  sake ! 


246 


TO  FREDERICK  A.  P.  BARNARD.— MIRIAM. 


MIRIAM, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


TO  FREDERICK  A,  P.  BARNARD. 

THE  years  are  many  since,  in  youth  and  hope, 
Under  the  Charter  Oak,  our  horoscope 
We  drew  thick-studded  with  all  favoring  stars. 
Now,  with  gray  beards,  and  faces  seamed  with 


From  life's  hard  battle,  meeting  once  again, 

We  smile,  half  sadly,  over  dreams  so  vain ; 

Knowing,  at  last,  that  it  is  not  in  man 

Who  walketh  to  direct  his  steps,  or  plan 

His  permanent  house  of  life.     Alike  we  loved 

The  muses'  haunts,  and  all  our  fancies  moved 

To  measures  of  old  song.     How  since  that  day 

Our  feet  have  parted  from  the  path  that  lay 

So  fair  before  us  !     Rich,  from  lifelong  search 

Of  truth,  within  thy  Academic  porch 

Thou  sittest  now,  lord  of  a  realm  of  fact, 

Thy  servitors  the  sciences  exact ; 

Still  listening  with  thy  hand  on  Nature's  keys, 

To  hear  the  Samian's  spheral  harmonies 

And  rhythm  of  law.  I  called  from  dream  and  song, 

Thank  God  !  so  early  to  a  strife  so  long, 

That,  ere  it  closed,  the  black,  abundant  hair 

Of  boyhood  rested  silver-sown  and  spare 

On  manhood's  temples,  now  at  sunset-chime 

Tread  with  fond  feet  the  path  of  morning  time. 

And  if  perchance  too  late  I  linger  where 

The  flowers  have  ceased  to  blow,  and  trees  are 

bare, 

Thou,  wiser  in  thy  choice,  wilt  scarcely  blame 
The  friend  who  shields  his  folly  with  thy  name. 
AMESBUBY,  10th  mo.,  1870. 


MIRIAM. 

ONE  Sabbath  day  my  friend  and  I 

After  the  meeting,  quietly 

Passed  from  the  crowded  village  lanes, 

White  with  dry  dust  for  lack  of  rains, 

And  climbed  the  neighboring  slope,  with  feet 

Slackened  and  heavy  from  the  heat, 

Although  the  day  was  wellnigh  done, 

And  the  low  angle  of  the  sun 

Along  the  naked  hillside  cast 

Our  shadows  as  of  giants  vast. 

We  reached,  at  length,  the  topmost  swell, 

Whence,  either  way,  the  green  turf  fell 

In  terraces  of  nature  down 

To  fruit-hung  orchards,  and  the  town 

With  white,  pretenceless  houses,  tall 

Church-staeples,  and,  o'ershadowing  all, 

Huge  mills  whose  windows  had  the  look 

Of  eager  eyes  that  ill  could  brook 

The  Sabbath  rest.     We  traced  the  track 

Of  the  sea-seeking  river  back 

Glistening  for  miles  above  its  mouth, 

Through  the  long  valley  to  the  south, 

And,  looking  eastward,  cool  to  view, 

Stretched  the  illimitable  blue 

Of  ocean,  from  its  curved  coast-line  ; 

Sombred  and  still,  the  warm  sunshine 

Filled  with  pale  gold-dust  all  the  reach 

Of  slumberous  woods  from  hill  to  beach, — 


Slanted  on  walls  of  thronged  retreats 
From  city  toil  and  dusty  streets, 
On  grassy  bluflj  and  dune  of  sand, 
And  rocky  islands  miles  from  land ; 
Touched  the  far-glancing  sails,  and  showed 
White  lines  of  foam  where  long  waves  flowed 
Dumb  in  the  distance.     In  the  north, 
Dim  through  their  misty  hair,  looked  forth 
The  space-dwarfed  mountains  to  the  sea, 
From  mystery  to  mystery  ! 

So,  sitting  on  that  green  hill-slope, 
We  talked  of  human  life,  its  hope 
And  fear,  and  unsolved  doubts,  and  what 
It  might  have  been,  and  yet  was  not. 
And,  when  at  last  the  evening  air 
Grew  sweeter  for  the  bells  of  prayer 
Ringing  in  steeples  far  below, 
We  watched  the  people  churchward  go, 
Each  to  his  place,  as  if  thereon 
The  true  shekinah  only  shone ; 
And  my  friend  queried  how  it  came 
To  pass  that  they  who  owned  the  same 
Great  Master  still  could  not  agree 
To  worship  Him  in  company. 
Then,  broadening  in  his  thought,  he  ran 
Over  the  whole  vast  field  of  man, — 
The  varying  forms  of  faith  and  creed 
That  somehow  served  the  holders'  need  ; 
In  which,  unquestioned,  undenied, 
Uncounted  millions  lived  and  died  ; 
The  bibles  of  the  ancient  folk, 
Through  which  the  heart  of  nations  spoke  ; 
The  old  moralities  which  lent 
To  home  its  sweetness  and  content, 
And  rendered  possible  to  bear 
The  life  of  peoples  everywhere  : 
And  asked  if  we,  who  boast  of  light, 
Claim  not  a  too  exclusive  right 
To  truths  which  must  for  all  be  meant, 
Like  rain  and  sunshine  freely  sent. 
In  bondage  to  the  letter  still, 
We  give  it  power  to  cramp  and  kill, — 
To  tax  God's  fulness  with  a  scheme 
Narrower  than  Peter's  house-top  dream, 
His  wisdom  and  his  love  with  plans 
Poor  and  inadequate  as  man's. 
It  must  be  that  He  witnesses 
Somehow  to  all  men  that  He  is  : 
That  something  of  His  saving  grace 
Reaches  the  lowest  of  the  race, 
Who,  through  strange  creed  and  rite,  may  draw 
The  hints  of  a  diviner  law. 
We  walk  in  clearer  light ; — but  then, 
Is  He  not  God  V — are  they  not  men  ? 
Are  His  responsibilities 
For  us  alone  and  not  for  these  ? 

And  I  made  answer :  "  Truth  is  one  ; 
And,  in  all  lands  beneath  the  sun, 
Whoso  hath  eyes  to  see  may  see 
The  tokens  of  its  unity. 
No  scroll  of  creed  its  fulness  wraps, 
We  trace  it  not  by  school-boy  maps, 
Free  as  the  sun  and  air  it  is 
Of  latitudes  and  boundaries. 
In  Vedic  verse,  in  dull  Koran, 
Are  messages  of  good  to  man ; 


MIRIAM. 


247 


The  angels  to  our  Aryan  sires 
Talked  by  the  earliest  household  fires  ; 
The  prophets  of  the  elder  day, 
The  slant-eyed  sages  of  Cathay, 
Read  not  the  riddle  all  amiss 
Of  higher  life  evolved  from  this. 

u  Nor  doth  it  lessen  what  He  taught, 
Or  make  the  gospel  Jesus  brought 
Less  precious,  that  His  lips  retold 
Some  portion  of  that  truth  of  old  ; 
Denying  not  the  proven  seers, 
The  tested  wisdom  of  the  years ; 
Confirming  with  his  own  impress 
The  common  law  of  righteousness. 
We  search  the  world  for  truth  ;  we  cull 
The  good,  the  pure,  the  beautiful, 
From  graven  stone  and  written  scroll, 
From  all  old  flower- fields  of  the  soul ; 
And,  weary  seekers  of  the  best, 
We  come  back  laden  from  our  quest, 
To  find  that  all  the  sages  said 
Is  in  the  Book  our  mothers  read, 
And  all  our  treasure  of  old  thought 
In  His  harmonious  fulness  wrought 
Who  gathers  in  one  sheaf  complete 
The  scattered  blades  of  God's  sown  wheat, 
The  common  growth  that  maketh  good 
His  all-embracing  Fatherhood. 

"  Wherever  through  the  ages  rise 
The  altars  of  self-sacrifice, 
Where  love  its  arms  has  opened  wide, 
Or  man  for  man  has  calmly  died, 
I  see  the  same  white  wings  outspread 
That  hovered  o'er  the  Master's  head  ! 
Up  from  undatad  time  they  come, 
The  martyr  souls  of  heathendom, 
And  to  His  cross  and  passion  bring 
Their  fellowship  of  suffering. 
I  trace  His  presence  in  the  blind 
Pathetic  gropings  of  my  kind, — 
In  prayers  from  sin,  and  sorrow  wrung, 
In  cradle-hymns  of  life  they  sung, 
Each,  in  its  measure,  but  a  part 
Of  the  unmeasured  Over-Heart  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  confess 
The  great3r  that  it  owns  the  less. 
Good  cause  it  is  for  thankfulness 
That  the  world-blessing  of  His  life 
With  the  long  past  is  not  at  strife  ; 
That  the  great  marvel  of  His  death 
To  the  one  order  witnesseth, 
No  doubt  of  changeless  goodness  wakes, 
No  link  of  cause  and  sequence  breaks, 
But,  one  with  nature,  rooted  is 
In  the  eternal  verities  ; 
Whereby,  while  differing  in  degree 
As  finite  from  infinity. 
The  pain  and  loss  for  others  borne, 
Love's  crown  of  suffering  meekly  worn, 
The  life  man  giveth  for  his  friend 
Become  vicarious  in  the  end  ; 
Their  healing  place  in  nature  take, 
And  make  life  sweeter  for  their  sake. 

"So  welcome  I  from  every  source 
The  tokens  of  that  primal  Force, 
Older  than  heaven  itself,  yet  new 
As  the  young  heart  it  reaches  to, 
Beneath  whose  steady  impulse  rolls 
The  tidal  wave  of  human  souls  ; 
Guide,  comforter,  and  inward  word, 
The  eternal  spirit  of  the  Lord  ! 
Nor  fear  I  aught  that  science  brings 
From  searching  through  material  things ; 
Content  to  let  its  glasses  prove, 
Not  by  the  letter's  oldness  move, 
The  myriad  worlds  on  worlds  that  course 
The  spaces  of  the  universe ; 


Since  everywhere  the  Spirit  walks 
The  garden  of  the  heart,  and  talks 
With  man,  as  under  Eden's  trees, 
In  all  his  varied  languages. 
Why  mourn  above  some  hopeless  flaw 
In  the  stone  tables  of  the  law, 
When  scripture  every  day  afresh 
Is  traced  on  tablets  of  the  flesh  ? 
By  inward  sense,  by  outward  signs, 
God's  presence  still  the  heart  divines  ; 
Through  deepest  joy  of  Him  we  learn, 
In  sorest  grief  to  Him  we  turn, 
And  reason  stoops  its  pride  to  share 
The  child-like  instinct  of  a  prayer." 

And  then,  as  is  my  wont,  I  told 
A  story  of  the  days  of  old, 
Not  found  in  printed  books, — in  sooth, 
A  fancy,  with  slight  hint  of  truth, 
Showing  how  differing  faiths  agree 
In  one  sweet  law  of  charity. 
Meanwhile  the  sky  had  golden  grown, 
Our  faces  in  its  glory  shone ; 
But  shadows  down  the  valley  swept, 
And  gray  below  the  ocean  slept, 
As  time  and  space  I  wandered  o'er 
To  tread  the  Mogul's  marble  floor, 
And  see  a  fairer  sunset  fall 
On  Jumna's  wave  and  Agra's  wall. 


THE  good  Shah  Akbar  (peace  be  his  alway !) 
Came  forth  from  the  Divan  at  close  of  day 
Bowed  with  the  burden  of  his  many  cares, 
Worn  with  the  hearing  of  unnumbered  prayers, — - 
Wild  cries  for  justice,  the  importunate 
Appeals  of  greed  an  1  jealousy  and  hate, 
And  all  the  strife  of  sect  and  creed  and  rite, 
Santon  and  Gouroo  waging  holy  fight : 
For  the  wise  monarch,  claiming  not  to  be 
Allah's  avenger,  left  his  people  free, 
With  a  faint  hope,  his  Book  scarce  justified, 
That  all  the  paths  of  faith,  though  severed  wide. 
O'er  which  the  feet  of  prayerful  reverence  passed, 
Met  at  the  gate  of  Paradise  at  last. 

He  sought  an  alcove  of  his  cool  hareem, 
Where,  far  beneath,  he  heard  the  Jumna's  stream 
Lapse  soft  and  low  along  his  palace  wall, 
And  all  about  the  cool  sound  of  the  fall 
Of  fountains,  and  of  water  circling  free 
Through  marble  ducts  along  the  balcony ; 
The  voice  of  women  in  the  distance  sweet, 
And,  sweeter  still,  of  one  who,  at  his  feet, 
Soothed  his  tired  ear  with  songs  of  a  far  land 
Where  Tagus  shatters  on  the  salt  sea-sand 
The  mirror  of  its  cork-grown  hills  of  drouth 
And  vales  of  vine,  at  Lisbon's  harbor-mouth. 

The  date-palms  rustled  not  ;  the  peepul  laid 
It  5  topmost  boughs  against  the  balustrade, 
Motionless  as  the  mimic  leaves  and  vines 
That,  light  and  graceful  as  the  shawl-designs 
Of  Delhi  or  Umritsir,  twined  in  stone ; 
And  the  tired  monarch,  who  aside  had  thrown 
The  day's  hard  burden,  sat  from  care  apart, 
And  let  the  quiet  steal  into  his  heart 
From  the  still  hour.     Below  him  Agra  slept, 
By  the  long  light  of  sunset  overswept : 
The  river  flowing  through  a  level  land, 
By  mango-groves  and  banks  of  yellow  sand, 
Skirted  with  lime  and  orange,  gay  kiosks, 
Fountains  at  play,  tall  minarets  of  mosques, 
Fair  pleasure -gardens,  with  their  flowering  trees 
Relieved  against  the  mournful  cypresses ; 
And,  air-poised  lightly  as  the  blown  sea- foam, 
The  marble  wonder  of  some  holy  dome 
Hung  a  white  moonrise  over  the  still  wood, 
Glassing  its  beauty  in  a  stiller  flood. 


MIRIAM. 


Silent  the  monarch  gazed,  until  the  night 
Swift-falling  hid  the  city  from  his  sight, 
Then  to  the  woman  at  his  feet  he  said  : 
"  Tell  me,  O  Miriam,  something  thou  hast  read 
In  childhood  of  the  Master  of  tay  faith, 
Whom  Islam  also  owns.     Our  Prophet,  saith  : 
1  He  was  a  true  apostle,  yea, — a  Word 
And  Spirit  sent  before  me  from  the  Lord. ' 
Thus  the  Book  witnesseth  ;  and  well  I  know 
By  what  thou  art,  O  deareot,  it  is  so. 
As  the  lute's  tone  the  maker's  hand  betrays, 
The  sweet  disciple  speaks  her  Master's  praise." 

Then  Miriam,  glad  of  heart,  (for  in  some  sort 
fSha  cherished  in  the  Moslem's  liberal  court 
The  sweet  traditions  of  a  Christian  child  • 
And,  through  her  life  of  sense,  the  undefiled 
And  chaste  ideal  of  the  sinless  One 
Crazed  on  her  with  an  eye  she  might  not  shun,— 
The  sad,  reproachful  look  of  pity,  bjrn 
Of  love  that  hath  no  part  in  wrath  or  scorn,) 
Began,  with  low  voice  and  moist  eyes,  to  tell 
Of  the  all-loving  Christ,  and  what  befell 
When  the  fierce  zealots,  thirsting  for  her  blood, 
Dragg?d  to  his  feet  a  shame  of  womanhood. 
How,  when  his  searching  answer  pierced  within 
Each  heart,  and  touched"  the  secret  of  its  sin, 
And  her  accusers  fled  his  faoe  before, 
He  bade  the  poor  one  go  and  sin  no  more, 
And  Akbar  said,  after  a  moment's  thought, 
"  Wise  is  th3  lesson  by  thy  prophet  taught ; 
Woe  unto  him  who  judges  and  forgets 
What  hidden  evil  his  own  heart  besets  ! 
Something  °£  this  large  charity  I  find 
In  all  the  sects  that  s^ver  human  kind  ; 
I  wo  :il  1  to  Allah  that  their  lives  agreed 
More  nearly  with  the  lesson  of  their  creed  ! 
Taose  yellow  Lamas  who  at  Mjerut  pray 
By  wind  and  watar  power,  and  love  to  say  : 
1  He  who  forgiveth  not  shall,  unforgiven, 
Fail  of  the  rest  of  Baddha,'  and  who  even 
Spare  the  black  gnat  that  stings  them,  vex  my  ears 
With  the  poor  hates  and  jealousies  and  fears 
Nursed  in  their  human  hives.     That  lean,  fierce 

priest 

Of  thy  own  people,  (be  his  heart  increased 
By  Allah's  love  !)  his  black  robes  smelling  yet 
Of  Goa's  roasted  Jews,  have  I  not  met 
Meek -face  1,  barefooted,  crying  in  the  street 
The  Baying  of  his  prophet  true  and  sweet, — 
4  He  who  is  merciful  shall  mercy  meet !  '  " 

But,  next  day,  so  it  chanced,  as  night  began 
To  fall,  a  murmur  through  the  hareem  ran 
That  one,  recalling  in  her  dusky  face 
Tae  full-lipped,  mild-eyed  beauty  of  a  race 
Known  as  the  blameless  Ethiops  of  Greek  song, 
Plotting  to  do  her  royal  master  wrong, 
Watching,  reproachful  of  t.ie  lingering  light, 
The  evening  shadows  deepen  for  her  flight, 
Love-guided,  to  her  home  in  a  far  land, 
Now  waited  death  at  the  great  Shah's  command. 

Shapely  as  that  dark  princess  for  whose  smile 
A  world  was  bartered,  daughter  of  the  Nile 
Herself,  and  veiling  in  her  large,  soft  eyes 
The  passion  and  the  languor  of  her  skies, 
The  Abyssinian  knelt  low  at  the  feet 
Of  her  stern  lord  :   "  O  king,  if  it  be  meet, 
And  for  thy  honor's  sake,"  she  said,  "  that  I, 
Who  am  the  humblest  of  thy  slaves,  should  die, 
I  will  not  tax  thy  mercy  to  forgive. 
Easier  it  is  to  die  than  to  outlive 
All  that  life  gave  me, — him  whose  wrong  of  thee 
Was  but  the  outcome  of  his  love  for  me, 
Cherished  from  childhood,   when,    beneath  the 

shade 

Of  templed  Axum,  side  by  side  we  played. 
Stolen  from  his  arms,  my  lover  followed  me 
Through  weary  seasons  over  land  and  sea  ; 


And  two  days  since,  sitting  disconsolate 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  hareem  gate, 

Suddenly,  as  if  dropping  from  the  sky, 

Down  from  the  lattice  of  the  balcony 

Fell  the  sweet  song  by  Tigre's  cow-herds  sung 

In  the  old  music  of  his  native  tongue. 

He  knew  my  voice,  for  love  is  quick  of  ear, 

Answering  in  song. 

This  night  he  waited  near 
To  fly  with  me.     The  fault  was  mine  alone  : 
He  knew  thse  not,  he  did  but  seek  his  own ; 
Who,  in  the  very  shadow  of  thy  throne, 
Sharing  thy  bounty,  knowing  all  thou  art, 
Greatest  and  best  of  men,  and  in  her  heart 
Grateful  to  tears  for  favor  undeserved, 
Torned  ever  homeward,  nor  one  moment  swerved 
From  her  young  love.     He  looked  into  my  eyes, 
Ha  heard  my  voice,  and  could  not  otherwise" 
Than  he  hath  done  ;  yet,  save  one  wild  embrace 
When  first  we  stood  together  face  to  face, 
And  all  that  fate  had  done  since  last  we  met 
Seemed  but  a  dream  that  left  us  children  yet, 
He  hath  not  wronged  theo  nor  thy  royal  bed; 
Spare  him,  O  king  !  and  slay  me  in  his  stead  !  " 

But  over  Akbar' s  brows  the  frown  hung  black, 
And,  turning  to  the  eunuch  at  his  back, 
"Take  them,"  he   said,  "and   let  the  Jumna's 

waves 

Hide  both  my  shame  and  these  accursed  slaves  !  " 
His  loathly  length  the  unsexed  bondman  bowed  : 
"  On  my  head  be  it  !  " 

Straightway  from  a  cloud 
Of  dainty  shawls  and  veils  of  woven  mist 
The  Christian  Miriam  rose,  and,  stooping,  kissed 
The  monarch's  hand.     Loose  down  her  shoulders 

bare 

Swept  all  the  rippled  darknees  of  her  hair, 
Veiling  the  bosom  that,  with  high,  quick  fcwell 
Of  fear  and  pity,  through  it  rose  and  fell. 

"  Alas  !  "  she  cried,  "hast  thou  forgotten  quite 
The  words  of  Him  we  spake  of  yesternight  ? 
Or  thy  own  prophet's, — '  Whoso  doth  endure 
And  pardon,  of  eternal  life  is  sure '  ? 
O  great  and  good  !  be  thy  revenge  alone 
Felt  in  thy  mercy  to  the  erring  shown ; 
Let  thwarted  love  and  youth  their  pardon  plead, 
Who  sinned  but  in  intent,  and  not  in  deed  !  " 

One  moment  the  strong  frame  of  Akbar  shook 
With  the  great  storm  of  passion.     Then  his  look 
Softened  to  her  uplifted  face,  that  still 
Pleaded  more  strongly  than  all  words,  until 
Its  pride  and  anger  seemed  like  overblown, 
Spent  clouds  of  thunder  left  to  tell  alone 
Of  strife  and  overcoming.     W'ith  bowed  head, 
And  smiting  on  his  bosom  :   "God,"  he  said, 
' '  Alone  is  great,  and  let  His  holy  name 
Be  honored,  even  to  His  servant's  shame  ! 
Well  spake  thy  prophet,  Miriam,— he  alone 
Who  hath  not  sinned  is  meet  to  cast  a  stone 
At  such  as  these,  who  here  their  doom  await, 
Held  like  myself  in  the  strong  grasp  of  fate. 
They  sinned  through  love,  as  I  through  love  for 
give  ; 
Take  them  beyond  my  realm,  but  let  them  live  !  " 

And,  like  a  chorus  to  the  words  of  grace, 
The  ancient  Fakir,  sitting  in  his  place, 
Motionless  as  an  idol  and  as  grim, 
In  the  pavilion  Akbar  built  for  him 
Under  the  court-yard  trees,  (for  he  was  wise, 
Knew  Menu's  laws,  and  through  his  close-shut 

eyes 

Saw  things  far  off,  and  as  an  open  book 
Into  the  thoughts  of  other  men  could  look, ) 
Began,  half  chant,  half  howling,  to  rehearse 
The  fragment  of  a  holy  Vedic  verse  ; 


MIRIAM. 


249 


'•  And,  momently,  the  beacon's  star." 


And  thus  it  ran  :  "He  who  all  things  forgives 
Conquers  himself  and  all  things  else,  and  lives 
Above  the  reach  of  wrong  or  hate  or  fear, 
Calm  as  the  gods,  to  whom  he  is  most  dear. " 

Two  leagues  from  Agra  still  the  traveller  sees 
The  tomb  of  Akbar  through  its  cypress-trees  ; 
And,  near  at  hand,  the  marble  walls  that  hide 
The  Christian  Begum  sleeping  at  his  side. 
And  o'er  her  vault  of  burial  (who  shall  tell 
If  it  be  chance  alone  or  miracle  ?) 
The  Mission  press  with  tireless  hand  unrolls 
The  words  of  Jesus  on  its  letterel  scrolls, — 
Tells,  in  all  tongues,  the  tale  of  mercy  o'er 
And  bids  the  guilty,  "Go  and  sin  no  more !  " 


It  now  was  dew-fall ;  very  still 
The  night  lay  on  the  lonely  hill, 
Down  which  our  homeward  steps  we  bent, 
And,  silent,  through  great  silence  went, 
Save  that  the  tireless  crickets  played 
Their  long,  monotonous  serenade. 


A  young  moon,  at  its  narrowest, 

Curved  sharp  against  the  darkening  west ; 

And,  momently,  the  beacon's  star, 

Slow  wheeling  o'er  its  rock  afar, 

From  out  the  level  darkness  shot 

One  instant  and  again  was  not. 

And  then  my  friend  spake  quietly 

The  thought  of  both  :   "  Yon  crescent  see  ! 

Like  Islam's  symbol  moon  it  gives 

Hints  of  the  light  whereby  it  lives  : 

Somewhat  of  goodness,  something  true 

From  sun  and  spirit  shining  through 

All  faiths,  all  worlds,  as  through  the  dark 

Of  ocean  shines  the  lighthouse  spark, 

Attests  the  presence  everywhere 

Of  love  and  providential  care. 

The  faith  the  old  Norse  heart  confessed 

In  one  dear  name, — the  hopefulest 

And  tenderest  heard  from  mortal  lips 

In  pangs  of  birth  or  death,  from  ships 

Ice-bitten  in  the  winter  sea, 

Or  lisped  beside  a  mother's  knee, — 

The  wiser  world  hath  not  outgrown, 

And  the  All-Father  is  oar  own  !" 


350 


NOREMBEGA. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


NOREMBEGA. 

[Norembega,   or  Norimbegue,  is  the  name  given  by 
eariy  French  fishermen  and  explorers  to  a  fabulous  coun 
try  south  of  Cape  Breton,  first  discovered  by  Verrazzani 
in  1524.     It  was  supposed  to  have  a  magnificent  city  of 
the  same  name  on  a  great  river,  probably  the  Penobscot. 
The  site  of  this  barbaric  city  is  laid  down  on  a  map  pub 
lished  at  Antwerp,  in  1570.     In  1604  Champlain  sailed  in  j 
search  of  the  Northern  Eldorado,  twenty-two  leagues  up 
the  Penobscot  from  the  Isle  Haute.     He  supposed  the  j 
river  to  be  that  of  Norembega,  but  wisely  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  those  travellers  who  told  of  the  great  city  ; 
had  never  seen  it.     He  saw  no  evidences  of  anything  like  j 
civilization,  but  mentions  the  finding  of  a  cross,  very  old 
and  mossy,  in  the  woods.] 

THE  winding  way  the  serpent  takes 

The  mystic  water  took, 
From  where,  to  count  its  beaded  lakes, 

The  forest  sped  its  brook. 

A  narrow  space  'twixt  shore  and  shore, 

For  sun  or  stars  to  fall, 
While  evermore,  behind,  before, 

Closed  in  the  forest  wall. 

The  dim  wood  hiding  underneath 

Wan  flowers  without  a  name  ; 
Life  tangled  with  decay  and  death, 

League  after  league  the  same. 

Unbroken  over  swamp  and  hill 

The  rounding  shadow  lay, 
Save  where  the  river  cut  at  will 

A  pathway  to  the  day. 

Beside  that  track  of  air  and  light, 

Weak  as  a  child  unweaned, 
At  shut  of  day  a  Christian  knight 

Upon  his  henchman  leaned. 

The  embers  of  the  sunset's  fires 
Along  the  clouds  burned  down  ; 

"I see,"  he  said,  "the  domes  and  spires 
Of  Norembega  town." 

u Alack!  the  domes,  O  master  mine, 

Are  golden  clouds  on  high  ; 
Yon  spire  is  but  the  branchless  pine 

That  cuts  the  evening  sky." 

"  O  hush  and  hark  !    What  sounds  are  these 

But  chants  and  holy  hymns  V  " 
"Thou  hear'st  the  breeze  that  stirs  the  trees 

Through  all  their  leafy  limbs." 

"Is  it  a  chapel  bell  that  fills 

The  air  with  its  low  tone  ?  " 
"  Thou  hear'st  the  tinkle  of  the  rills, 

The  insect's  vesper  drone." 

"  The  Christ  be  praised  ! — He  sets  for  me 

A  blessed  cross  in  sight !  " 
u  Now,  nay,  't  is  but  yon  blasted  tree 

With  two  gaunt  arms  outright !  " 

"  Be  it  wind  so  sad  or  tree  so  stark, 

It  mattereth  not,  my  knave ; 
Methinks  to  funeral  hymns  I  hark, 

The  cross  is  for  my  grave  ! 

u  My  life  is  sped ;  I  shall  not  see 
My  home-set  sails  again  ; 


The  sweetest  eyes  of  Norman  die 
Shall  watch  for  me  in  vain. 

' '  Yet  onward  still  to  ear  and  eye 

The  baffling  marvel  calls  ; 
I  fain  would  look  before  I  die 

On  Norembega's  walls. 

u  So,  haply,  it  shall  be  thy  part 

At  Christian  feet  to  lay 
The  mystery  of  the  desert's  heart 

My  dead  hand  plucked  away. 

"  Leave  me  an  hour  of  rest ;  go  thou 

And  look  from  yonder  heights  ; 
Perchance  the  valley  even  now 

Is  starred  with  city  lights." 

The  henchman  climbed  the  nearest  hill, 

He  saw  nor  tower  nor  town, 
But,  through  the  drear  woods,  lone  and  still, 

The  river  rolling  down. 

He  heard  the  stealthy  feet  of  things 

Whose  shapes  he  could  not  see, 
A  flutter  as  of  evil  wings, 

The  fall  of  a  dead  tree. 

The  pines  stood  black  against  the  moon, 

A  sword  of  fire  beyond  ; 
He  heard  the  wolf  howl,  and  the  loon 

Laugh  from  his  reedy  pond. 

He  turned  him  back  :  "  O  master  dear, 

We  are  but  men  misled  ; 
And  thou  hast  sought  a  city  here 

To  find  a  grave  instead." 

"  As  God  shall  will !  what  matters  wheie 

A  true  man's  cross  may  stand, 
So  Heaven  be  o'er  it  here  as  there 

In  pleasant  Norman  land  ? 

1 '  These  woods,  perchance,  no  secret  hide 

Of  lordly  tower  and  hall ; 
Yon  river  in  its  wanderings  wide 

Has  washed  no  city  wall ;  ' 

"  Yet  mirrored  in  the  sullen  stream 

The  holy  stars  are  given  : 
Is  Norembega,  then,  a  dream 

Whose  waking  is  in  Heaven  ? 

"No  builded  wonder  of  these  lands 

My  weary  eyes  shall  see ; 
A  city  never  made  with  hands 

Alone  awaiteth  me — 

"  l  Urbs  Syon  mystica*1 ;  I  see 

Its  mansions  passing  fair, 
'  Concilia  ccelo  ' ;  let  me  be, 

Dear  Lord,  a  dweller  there  ! " 

Above  the  dying  exile  hung 

The  vision  of  the  bard, 
As  faltered  on  his  failing  tongue 

The  song  of  good  Bernard. 

The  henchman  dug  at  dawn  a  grave 

Beneath  the  hemlocks  brown, 
And  to  the  desert's  keeping  gave 

The  lord  of  fief  and  town. 


NAUHAUGHT,  THE  DEACON.— IN  SCHOOL-DAYS. 


251 


Years  after,  when  the  Sieur  Champlain 

Sailed  up  the  unknown  stream, 
And  Norernbega  proved  again 

A  shadow  and  a  dream, 

He  found  the  Norman's  nameless  grave 

Within  the  hemlock's  shade, 
And,  stretching  wide  its  arms  to  save, 

The  sign  that  God  had  made, 

The  cross-boughed  tree  that  marked  the  spot 

And  made  it  holy  ground  : 
He  needs  the  earthly  city  not 

Who  hath  the  heavenly  found. 


NAUHAUGHT,  THE  DEACON. 

NAUHAUGHT,  the  Indian  deacon,  who  of  old 
Dwelt,  poor  but  blameless,  where  his  narrowing 

Cape 

Stretches  its  shrunk  arm  out  to  all  the  winds 
And  the  relentless  smiting  of  the  waves, 
Awoke  one  morning  from  a  pleasant  dream 
Of  a  good  angel  dropping  in  his  hand 
A  fair,  broad  gold-piece,  in  the  name  of  God. 

He  rose  and  went  forth  with  the  early  day 
Far  inland,  where  the  voices  of  the  waves 
Mellowed  and  mingled  with  the  whispering  leaves, 
As,  through  the  tangle  of  the  low,  thick  woods, 
He  searched  his  traps.     Therein  nor  beast  nor 

bird 

Ha  found  ;  though  meanwhile  in  the  reedy  pools 
The  otter  plashed,  and  underneath  the  pines 
The  partridge  drummed  :   and  as  his  thoughts 

went  back 

To  the  sick  wife  and  little  child  at  home, 
What  marvel  that  the  poor  man  felt  his  faith 
Too  weak  to  bear  its  burden, — like  a  rope 
That,  strand  by  strand  uncoiling,  breaks  above 
The  hand  that  grasps  it.     u  Even  now,  O  Lord ! 
Send  me, "  he  prayed,  '  *  the  angel  of  my  dream  ! 
Nauhaught  is  very  poor  ;  hs  cannot  wait. 

Even  as  he  spake  he  heard  at  his  bare  feet 
A  1  >w,  metallic  clink,  and,  looking  down, 
Ha  saw  a  dainty  purse  with  disks  of  gold 
Crowding  its  silken  net.     Awhile  he  held 
The  treasure  up  before  his  eyes,  alone 
With  his  great  need,  feeling  the  wondrous  coins 
Slide  through  his  eager  fingers,  one  by  one. 
So  then  the  dream  was  true.     Th3  angel  brought 
One  broad  piece  only  ;  shoull  he  take  all  thasa  ? 
Who  would  be  wiser,  in  the  blind,-  dumb  woods  ? 
The  Ios3r,  doubtless  rich,  would  scarcely  miss 
This  dropped  crumb  from  a  table  always  full. 
Still,  while  he  mused,  he  seemed  to  hear  the  cry 
Of  a  starved  child  ;  the  sick  face  of  his  wife 
Tempted  him.     Heart  and  flesh  in  fierce  revolt 
Urged  the  wild  license  of  his  savage  youth 
Against  his  later  scruples.     Bitter  toil, 
Prayer,  fasting,  dread  of  blame,  and  pitiless  eyes 
To  watch  his  halting, — had  he  lost  for  these 
The  f  re3dom  of  the  woods  ;— the  hunting-grounds 
Of  happy  spirits  for  a  walled-in  heaven 
Of  everlasting  psalms  V     One  healed  the  sick 
Very  far  off  thousands  of  moons  ago  : 
Had  he  not  prayed  him  night  and  day  to  come 
And  cure  his  bed-bound  wife  ?   Was  there  a  hell  ? 
Were  all  his  fathers'  people  writhing  there — 
Like  the  poor  shell-fish  set  to  boil  alive — 
Forever,  dying  never  ?    If  he  kept 
This  gold,  so  needed,  would  the  dreadful'  God 
Torment  him  like  a  Mohawk's  captive  stuck 
With    slow-consuming    splinters  ?      Would    the 
saints 


And  the  white  angels  dance  and  laugh  to  see  him 
Burn  like  a  pitch-pine  torch  ?      His  Christian 

garb 
Seemed  falling  from  him ;    with  the  fear  and 

shame 

Of  Adam  naked  at  the  cool  of  day, 
He  gazed  around.     A  black  snake  lay  in  coil 
On  the  hot  sand,  a  crow  with  sidelong  eye 
Watched  from  a  dead  bough.    All  his  Indian  lore 
Of  evil  blending  with  a  convert's  faith 
In  the  supernal  terrors  of  the  Book, 
He  saw  the  Tempter  in  the  coiling  snake 
And  ominous,   black-winged  bird ;    and  all  the 

while 

The  low  rebuking  of  the  distant  waves 
Stole  in  upon  him  like  the  voice  of  God 
Among  tha  trees  of  Eden.     Girding  up 
His  soul's  loins  with  a  resolute  hand,  he  thrust 
The  base  thought  from  him  :   u  Nauhaught,  be  a 

man  ! 

Starve,  if  need  be  ;  but,  while  you  live,  look  out 
From  honest  eyes  on  all  men,  unashamed. 
God  help  me  !     I  am  a  deacon  of  the  church, 
A  baptized,  praying  Indian  !     Should  I  do 
This  secret  meanness,  even  the  barken  knots 
Of  the  old  trees  would  turn  to  eyes  to  see  it, 
The  birds  would  tell  of  it,  and  all  the  leaves 
Whisper  above  me  :  '  Nauhaught  is  a  thief  ! ' 
The  sun  would  know  it,  and  the  stars  that  hide 
Behind  his  light  would  watch  me,  and  at  night 
Follow  me  with  their  sharp,  accusing  eyes. 
Yea,  thou,   God,   seest  me  !  "    Then  Nauhaught 

drew 

Closer  his  belt  of  leather,  dulling  thus 
The  pain  of  hunger,  and  walked  bravely  back 
To  the  brown  fishing-hamlet  by  the  sea ; 
And,  pausing  at  the  inn-door,  cheerily  asked  : 
"  Who  hath  lost  aught  to-day  ?  " 

"I,"  said  a  voice  ; 

"  Ten  golden  pieces,  in  a  silken  purse, 
My  daughter's  handiwork."     He  looked,  and  lo  ! 
One  stood  before  him  in  a  coat  of  frieze, 
And  the  glazed  hat  of  a  seafaring  man, 
Shrewd-faced,  broad-shouldered,  with  no  trace  of 

wings. 
Marvelling,    he    dropped  within    the    stranger's 

hand 

The  silken  web,  and  turned  to  go  his  way. 
B^it  the  man  said :     "  A  tithe  at  least  is  yours  ; 
Take  it  in  God's  name  as  an  honest  man." 
And  as  the  deacon's  dusky  fingers  closed 
Over  the  golden  gift,  "  Yea,  in  God's  name 
I  take  it,  with  a  poor  man's  thanks,"  he  said. 

So  down  the  street  that,  like  a  river  of  sand, 
Ran,  white  in  sunshine,  to  the  summer  sea, 
He  sought  his  home,  singing  and  praising  God; 
And  when  his  neighbors  in  their  careless  way 
Spoke  of  the  owner  of  the  silken  purse — 
A  Wellfleet  skipper,  known  in  every  port 
That  the  Cape  opens  in  its  sandy  wall — 
He  answered,  with  a  wise  smile,  to  himself  : 
ik  I  saw  the  angel  where  they  see  a  man." 


IN  SCHOOL-DAYS. 

STILL  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sunning  ; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow, 

And  blackberry-vines  are  running. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 
Deep  scarred  by  raps  official ; 

The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 
The  jack-knife's  carved  initial ; 


252 


GARIBALDI.— AFTER  ELECTION.— MY  TRIUMPH. 


The  charcoal  frescos  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing  ! 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting  ; 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  tne  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving, 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 

Her  childish  favor  singled  : 
His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  lingered  ; — 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 
The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes ;  he  felt 
The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 

And  heard  the  trembla  of  her  voice, 
As  if  a  fault  confessing. 

u  I  'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word : 

I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because/' — th3  brown  eyes  lower  fell, — 

u  Because,  you  sae,  I  love  you  !  " 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing  ! 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school, 
How  few  who  pass  above  him 

Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss, 
Like  her, — because  they  love  him. 


GARIBALDI 

IN  trance  and  dream  of  old,  God's  prophet  saw 
The  casting  down  of  thrones.     Thou,  watching 

lone 

The  hot  Sardinian  coast-line,  hazy-hilled, 
Where,  fringing  round  Caprera's  rocky  zone 

With  foam,  the  slow  waves  gather  and  withdraw, 
Behold'st  the  vision  of  the  seer  fulfilled, 
And   hear'st  the  sea-winds  burdened  with  a 

sound 
Of  falling  chains,  as,  one  by  one,  unbound, 

The  nations  lift  their  right  hands  up  and  swear 
Their  oath  of  freedom.     From  the  chalk-white 
wall 

Of  England,  from  the  black  Carpathian  range, 
Along  the  Danube  and  the  Theiss,  through  all 
The  passes  of  the  Spanish  Pyrenees, 

And  from  the  Seine's  thronged  banks,  a  murmur 

strange 
And  glad  floats  to  thee  o'er  thy  summer  seas 

On  the  salt  wind  that  stirs  thy  whitening  hair, — 
The  song  of  freedom's  bloodless  victories  ! 

Rejoice,  O  Garibaldi !     Though  thy  sword 

Failed  at  Rome's  gates,  and  blood  seemed  vainly 
poured 

Where,  in  Christ's  name,  the  crowned  infidel 

Of  France  wrought  murder  with  the  arms  of  hell 
On  that  sad  mountain  slope  whose  ghostly  dead, 

Unmindful  of  the  gray  exorcist's  ban, 

Walk,  unappeased,  the  chambered  Vatican, 


And  draw  the  curtains  of  Napoleon's  bed  ! 

God's  providence  is  not  blind,  but,  full  of  eyes, 

It  searches  all  the  refuges  of  lies ; 

And  in  His  time  and  way,  the  accursed  things 
Before  whose  evil  feet  thy  battle-gage 
Has  clashed  defiance  from  hot  youth  to  age 

Shall  perish.  All  men  shall  be  priests  and  kings,  - 
One  royal  brotherhood,  one  church  made  free 
By  love,  which  is  the  law  of  liberty  ! 

1869. 


AFTER  ELECTION. 

THE  day's  sharp  strife  is  ended  now, 
Our  work  is  done,  God  knoweth  how  ! 
As  on  the  thronged,  unrestf ul  town 
The  patience  of  the  moon  looks  down, 
I  wait  to  hear,  beside  the  wire, 
The  voices  of  its  tongues  of  fire. 

Slow,  doubtful,  faint,  they  seem  at  first : 
Be  strong,  my  heart,  to  know  the  worst ! 
Hark  ! — there  the  Alleghanies  spoke  ; 
Tnat  sound  from  lake  and  prairie  broke, 
That  sunset-gun  of  triumph  rent 
The  silence  of  a  continent ! 

That  signal  from  Nebraska  sprung. 

This,  from  Nevada's  mountain  tongue  ! 

Is  that  thy  answer,  strong  and  free, 

O  loyal  heart  of  Tennessee  ? 

What  strange,  glad  voice  is  that  which  calls 

From  Wagner's  grave  and  Sumter's  walls  ? 

From  Mississippi's  fountain-head 
A  sound  as  of  the  bison's  tread  ! 
There  rustled  freedom's  Charter  Oak  ! 
In  that  wild  burst  the  Ozarks  spoke  ! 
Cheer  answers  cheer  from  rise  to  set 
Of  sun.     We  have  a  country  yet ! 

The  praise,  O  God,  be  thine  alone  ! 
Tiiou  givest  not  for  bread  a  stone  ; 
Taou  hast  not  led  us  through  the  night 
To  blind  us  with  returning  light ; 
Not  through  the  furnace  have  we  passed, 
To  perish  at  its  mouth  at  last. 

O  night  of  peace,  thy  flight  restrain  ! 
November's  moon,  be  slow  to  wane  ! 
Shine  on  the  freedman's  cabin  floor, 
On  brows  of  prayer  a  blessing  pour  • 
And  give,  with  full  assurance  blest, 
The  weary  heart  of  Freedom  rest ! 

1868. 


MY  TRIUMPH. 

THE  autumn-time  has  come  ; 
On  woods  that  dream  of  bloom, 
And  over  purpling  vines, 
The  low  sun  fainter  shines. 

The  aster-flower  is  failing, 
The  hazel's  gold  is  paling  ; 
Yet  overhead  more  near 
The  eternal  stars  appear  ! 

And  present  gratitude 
Insures  the  future's  good, 
And  for  the  things  I  see 
I  trust  the  things  to  be  ; 


THE  HIVE  AT  GETTYSBURG.— HOWARD  AT  ATLANTA. 


253 


That  in  the  paths  untrod, 
And  the  long  days  of  God, 
My  feet  shall  still  be  led, 
My  heart  be  comforted. 

O  living  friends  who  love  me  ! 

0  dear  ones  gone  above  me  ! 
Careless  of  other  fame, 

1  leave  to  you  my  name. 

Hide  it  from  idle  praises, 

Save  it  from  evil  phrases : 

Why,  when  dear  lips  that  spake  it 

Are  dumb,  should  strangers  wake  it  ? 

Let  the  thick  curtain  fall ; 
I  better  know  than  all 
How  little  I  have  gained, 
How  vast  the  unattained. 

Not  by  the  page  word-painted 
Let  life  be  banned  or  sainted  : 
Deeper  than  written  scroll 
The  colors  of  the  soul. 

Sweeter  than  any  sung 

My  songs  that  found  no  tongue  ; 

Nobler  than  any  fact 

My  wish  that  failed  of  act. 

Others  shall  sing  the  song, 
Others  shall  right  the  wrong, — 
Finish  what  I  begin, 
And  all  I  fail  of  win. 

What  matter,  I  or  they  ? 
Mine  or  another's  day, 
So  the  right  word  be  said 
And  life  the  sweeter  made  ? 

Hail  to  the  coming  singers ! 
Hail  to  the  bi  ave  light-bringers  ! 
Forward  I  reach  and  sh/_:re 
All  that  they  sing  and  dare. 

The  airs  of  heaven  blow  o'er  me : 
A  glory  shines  before  me 
Of  what  mankind  shall  be, — 
Pure,  generous,  brave,  and  free. 

A  dream  of  man  and  woman 
Diviner  but  still  human, 
Solving  the  riddle  old, 
Shaping  the  Age  of  Gold  ! 

The  love  of  God  and  neighbor  ; 
An  equal-handed  labor ; 
The  richer  lifo,  where  beauty 
Walks  hand  in  hand  with  duty. 

Ring,  bells  in  unreared  steeples, 
The  joy  of  unborn  peoples  ! 
Sound,  trumpets  far  off  blown, 
Your  triumph  is  my  own  ! 

Parcel  and  part  of  all, 
I  keep  the  festival, 
Fore-reach  the  good  to  be, 
And  share  the  victory. 

I  feel  the  earth  move  sunward, 
I  join  the  great  march  onward, 
And  take,  by  faith,  while  living, 
My  freehold  of  thanksgiving. 


THE  HIVE  AT  GETTYSBURG. 

IN  the  old  Hebrew  myth  the  lion's  frame, 

So  terrible  alive, 
Bleached  by  the  desert's  sun  and  wind,  became 

The  wandering  wild  bees'  hive ; 
And  he  who,  lone  and  naked-handed,  tore 

Those  jaws  of  death  apart, 
In  after  time  drew  forth  their  honeyed  store 

To  strengthen  his  strong  heart. 

Dead  seemed  the  legend :  but  it  only  slept 

To  wake  beneath  our  sky  ; 
Just  on  the  spot  whence  ravening  Treason  crept 

Back  to  its  lair  to  die, 

Bleeding    and  torn   from    Freedom's  mountain 
bounds, 

A  stained  and  shattered  drum 
Is  now  the  hive  where,  on  their  flowery  rounds, 

The  wild  bees  go  and  come. 

Unchallenged  by  a  ghostly  sentinel, 

They  wander  wide  and  far, 
Along  green  hillsides,  sown  with  shot  and  shell, 

Through  vales  once  choked  with  war. 
The  low  reveille  of  their  battle-drum 

Disturbs  no  morning  prayer  ; 
With  deeper  peace  in  summer  noons  their  hum 

Fills  all  the  drowsy  air. 

And  Samson's  riddle  is  our  own  to-day, 

Of  sweetness  from  the  strong, 
Of  union,  peace,  and  freedom  plucked  away 

From  the  rent  jaws  of  wrong. 
From  Treason's  death  we  draw  a  purer  life, 

As,  from  the  beast  he  slew, 
A  sweetness  sweeter  for  his  bitter  strife 

The  old-time  athlete  drew ! 


HOWARD  AT  ATLANTA. 

RIGHT  in  the  track  where  Sherman 

Ploughed  his  red  furrow, 
Out  of  the  narrow  cabin, 

Up  from  the  cellar's  burrow, 
Gathered  the  little  black  people, 

With  freedom  newly  dowered, 
Where,  beside  their  Northern  teacher,, 

Stood  the  soldier,  Howard. 

He  listened  and  heard  the  children 

Of  the  poor  and  long-enslaved 
Reading  the  words  of  Jesus, 

Singing  the  songs  of  David. 
Behold  ! — the  dumb  lips  speaking, 

The  blind  eyes  seeing  ! 
Bones  of  the  Prophet's  vision 

Warmed  into  being ! 

Transformed  he  saw  them  passing 

Their  new  life's  portal ! 
Almost  it  seemed  the  mortal 

Put  on  the  immortal. 
No  more  with  the  beasts  of  bvrden, 

No  more  with  stone  and  clod, 
But  crowned  with  glory  and  honor 

In  the  image  of  God  ! 

•  There  was  the  human  chattel 

Its  manhood  taking ; 
There,  in  each  dark,  brown  statue. 

A  soul  was  waking  ! 
The  man  of  many  battles, 

With  tears  his  eyelids  pressing, 
Stretched  over  those  dusky  foreheads 

His  one-armed  blessing. 


254 


TO  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD.— THE   PRAYER-SEEKER. 


And  he  said :  "Who  hears  can  never 

Fear  for  or  doubt  you  ; 
What  shall  I  tell  the  children 

Up  North  about  you  ?  " 
Then  ran  round  a  whisper,  a  murmur, 

Some  answer  devising ; 
And  a  little  boy  stood  up :  "  Massa, 

Tell  'em  we  're  rising  !  " 

O  black  boy  of  Atlanta  ! 

But  half  was  spoken  : 
The  slave's  chain  and  the  master's 

Alike  are  broken. 
The  one  curse  of  the  races 

Held  both  in  tether : 
They  are  rising, — all  are  rising, 

The  black  and  white  together ! 

O  brave  men  and  fair  women  ! 

Ill  comes  of  hate  and  scorning  : 
Shall  the  dark  faces  only 

Be  turned  to  n:orning  ? — 
Make  Time  your  sole  avenger, 

All-healing,  all-redressing ; 
Meet  Fate  half-way,  and  make  it 

A  joy  and  blessing  ! 


TO  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD, 

ON   READING    HER   POEM   IN    a  THE   STANDARD. 

THE  sweet  spring  day  is  glad  with  music, 
But  through  it  sounds  a  sadder  strain  ; 

The  worthiest  of  our  narrowing  circle 
Sings  Loring's  dirges  o'er  again. 

0  woman  greatly  loved  !  I  join  thee 
In  tender  memories  of  our  friend  ; 

With  thee  across  the  awful  spaces 
The  greeting  of  a  soul  I  send ! 

What  cheer  hath  he  ?    How  is  it  with  him  ? 

Where  lingers  he  this  weary  while  ? 
Over  what  pleasant  fields  of  Heaven 

Dawns  the  sweet  sunrise  of  his  smile  ? 

Does  he  not  know  our  feet  are  treading 
The  earth  hard  down  on  Slavery's  grave  ? 

That,  in  our  crowning  exultations, 

We  miss  the  charm  his  presence  gave  ? 

Why  on  this  spring  air  comes  no  whisper 
From  him  to  tell  us  all  is  well  ? 

Why  to  our  flower-time  comes  no  token 
Of  lily  and  of  asphodel  ? 

1  feel  the  unutterable  longing, 
Thy  hunger  of  the  heart  is  mine  ; 

I  reach  and  grope  for  hands  in  darkness, 
My  ear  grows  sharp  for  voice  or  sign. 

Still  on  the  lips  of  all  we  question 
The  finger  of  God's  silence  lies  ; 

Will  the  lost  hands  in  ours  be  folded  ? 
Will  the  shut  eyelids  ever  rise  ? 

O  friend  !  no  proof  beyond  this  yearning, 
This  outreach  of  our  hearts,  we  need  ; 

God  will  not  mock  the  hope  He  giveth, 
No  love  He  prompts  shall  vainly  plead. 

Then  let  us  stretch  our  hands  in  darkness, 
And  call  our  loved  ones  o'er  and  o'er  ; 


Some  day  their  arms  shall  close  about  us, 
And  the  old  voices  speak  once  more. 

No  dreary  splendors  wait  our  coming 
Where  rapt  ghost  sits  from  ghost  apart ; 

Homeward  we  go  to  Heaven's  thanksgiving, 
The  harvest-gathering  of  the  heart. 


THE  PRAYER-SEEKER. 

ALONG  the  aisle  where  prayer  was  made 
A  woman,  all  in  black  arrayed, 
Close-veiled,  between  the  kneeling  host, 
With  gliding  motion  of  a  ghost, 
Passed  to  the  desk,  and  laid  thereon 
A  scroll  which  bore  these  words  alone, 
Pray  for  me!' 

Back  from  the  place  of  worshipping 
She  glided  like  a  guilty  thing : 
The  rustle  of  her  draperies,  stirred 
By  hurrying  feet,  alone  was  heard  ; 
While,  full  of  awe,  the  preacher  read, 
As  out  into  the  dark  she  sped  : 

"  Pray  for  me  !  " 

Back  to  the  night  from  whence  she  came, 
To  unimagined  grief  or  shame  ! 
Across  the  threshold  of  that  door 
None  knew  the  burden  that  she  bore  ; 
Alone  she  left  the  written  scroll, 
The  legend  of  a  troubled  soul, — 
Pray  for  me  ! 

Glide  on,  poor  ghost  of  woe  or  sin  ! 
Thou  leav'st  a  common  need  within ; 
Each  bears,  like  thee,  some  nameless  weight, 
Some  miser.y  inarticulate, 
Some  secret  sin,  some  shrouded  dread, 
Some  household  sorrow  all  unsaid. 
Pray  for  us  ! 

Pass  on  !     The  type  of  all  thou  art, 
Sad  witness  to  the  common  heart ! 
With  face  in  veil  and  seal  on  lip, 
In  mute  and  strange  companionship, 
Like  thee  we  wander  to  and  fro, 
Dumbly  imploring  as  we  go  : 
Pray  for  us! 

Ah,  who  shall  pray,  since  he  who  pleads 
Our  want  perchance  hath  greater  needs  ? 
Yet  they  who  make  their  loss  the  gain 
Of  others  shall  not  ask  in  vain, 
And  Heaven  bends  low  to  hear  the  prayer 
Of  love  from  lips  of  self -despair  : 
Pray  for  us! 

In  vain  remorse  and  fear  and  hate 
Beat  with  bruised  hands  against  a  fate 
Whose  wails  of  iron  only  move 
And  open  to  the  touch  of  love. 
He  only  feels  his  burdens  fall 
Who,  taught  by  suffering,  pit'es  all. 
Pray  for  us! 

He  prayeth  best  who  leaves  unguessed 
The  mystery  of  another's  breast. 
Why  cheeks  grow  pale,  why  eyes  o'erflow, 
Or  heads  are  white,  thou  need'st  not  know. 
Enough  to  note  by  many  a  sign 
That  every  heart  hath  needs  like  thine. 
Pray  for  us .' 


A  SPIRITUAL  MANIFESTATION. 


255 


POEMS    FOR  PUBLIC   OCCASIONS. 


A  SPIRITUAL  MANIFESTATION. 

AT  THE   PRESIDENT'S  LEVEE,   BROWN  UNIVER 
SITY,  29TH  OTH  MONTH,  1870. 

TO-DAY  the  plant  by  Williams  set 

Its  summer  bloom  discloses  ; 
The  wilding  sweetbrier  of  his  prayers 

Is  crowned  with  cultured  roses. 

Once  more  the  Island  State  repeats 

The  lesson  that  he  taught  her, 
And  binds  his  pearl  of  charity 

Upon  her  brown-locked  daughter. 

Is  't  fancy  that  he  watches  still 

His  providence  plantations  ? 
That  still  the  careful  Founder  takes 

A  part  on  these  occasions  ? 

Methinks  I  see  that  reverend  form, 

Which  all  of  us  so  well  know  : 
He  rises  up  to  speak  ;  he  jogs 

The  presidential  elbow. 

"  Good  friends,"  he  says,  "  you  reap  a  field 

I  sowed  in  self-denial, 
For  toleration  had  its  griefs 

And  charity  its  trial. 

"  Great  grace,  as  saith  Sir  Thomas  More, 

To  him  must  needs  be  given 
Who  heareth  heresy  and  leaves 

The  heretic  to  Heaven  ! 

"  I  hear  again  the  snuffled  tones, 

I  see  in  dreary  vision 
Dyspeptic  dreamers,  spiritual  bores, 

And  prophets  with  a  mission. 

"  Each  zealot  thrust  before  my  eyes 

His  Scripture-garbled  label ; 
All  cre3ds  were  shouted  in  my  ears 

As  with  the  tongues  of  Babel. 

"  Scourged  at  one  cart-tail,  each  denied 

The  hope  of  every  other  ; 
Each  martyr  shook  his  branded  fist 

At  the  conscience  of  his  brother  ! 

"How  cleft  the  dreary  drone  of  man 

The  shriller  pipe  of  woman, 
As  Gorton  led 'his  .saints  elect, 

Who  held  all  things  in  common  ! 

"  Their  gay  robes  trailed  in  ditch  and  swamp, 

And  torn  by  thorn  and  thicket, 
The  dancing-girls  of  Merry  Mount 

Came  dragging  to  my  wicket. 

"  Shrill  Anabaptists,  shorn  of  ears  ; 

Gray  witch-wives,  hobbling  slowly; 
And  Antinoiniaris,  free  of  law, 

Whose  very  sins  were  holy. 

"Hoarse  ranters,  crazed  Fifth  Monarchists, 
Of  stripes  and  bondage  braggarts, 

Pale  Churchmen,  with  signed  rubrics  snatched 
From  Puritanic  fagots. 

"And  last,  not  least,  the  Quakers  came, 
With  tongues  still  sore  from  burning, 


The  Bay  State's  dust  from  off  their  feet 
Before  my  threshold  spurning ; 

"  A  motley  host,  the  Lord's  debris, 
Faith's  odds  and  ends  together ; 

Well  might  I  shrink  from  guests  with  lungs 
Tough  as  their  breeches  leather  : 

"  If,  when  the  hangman  at  their  heels 
Came,  rope  in  hand  to  catch  them, 

I  took  the  hunted  outcasts  in 
I  never  sent  to  fetch  them. 

"  I  fed,  but  spared  them  not  a  whit ; 

I  gave  to  all  who  walked  in, 
Not  clams  and  succotash  alone, 

But  stronger  meat  of  doctrine. 

"I  proved  the  prophets  false,  I  pricked 

The  bubble  of  perfection, 
And  clapped  upon  their  inner  light 

The  snuffers  of  election. 

"And,  looking  backward  on  my  times, 
One  thirg,  at  least,  I'm  proud  for  ; 

I  kept  each  sectary's  dish  apart, 
And  made  no  spiritual  chowder. 

"  Where  now  the  blending  signs  of  sect 

Would  puzzle  their  assorter, 
The  drv-shod  Quaker  kept  the  land, 

The  Baptist  held  the  water. 

' '  A  common  coat  now  serves  for  both, 

The  hat's  no  more  a  fixture  ; 
And  which  was  wet  and  which  was  dry, 

Who  knows  in  such  a  mixture  ? 

"  Well !  He  who  fashioned  Peter's  dream 

To  bless  them  all  is  able ; 
And  bird  and  beast  and  creeping  thing 

Make  clean  upon  His  table  ! 

' '  I  walked  by  my  own  light ;  but  when 

The  ways  of  faith  divided, 
Was  I  to  force  unwilling  feet 

To  tread  the  path  that  I  did  ? 

"  I  touched  the  garment-hem  of  truth, 

Yet  saw  not  all  its  splendor  ; 
I  knew  enough  of  doubt  to  feel 

For  every  conscience  tender. 

"  God  left  men  free  of  choice,  as  when 

His  Eden-trees  were  planted  ; 
Because  they  chose  amiss,  should  I 

Deny  tha  gift  He  granted  ? 

"  So,  with  a  common  sense  of  need, 
Our  common  weakness  feeling, 

I  left  them  with  myself  to  God 
And  His  all-gracious  dealing  ! 

"  I  kept  His  plan  whose  rain  and  sun 

To  tare  and  wheat  are  given; 
And  if  1  he  ways  to  hell  were  free, 

I  left  them  free  to  heaven  !  " 

Take  heart  with  us,  O  man  of  old, 
Soul-freedom's  brave  confessor, 

So  love  of  God  and  man  wax  strong, 
Let  sect  and  creed  be  lesser. 


256 


THE  LAURELS."— HYMN. 


The  jarring  discords  of  thy  day 
In  ours  one  hymn  are  swelling ; 

The  wandering  feet,  the  severed  paths, 
All  seek  our  Father's  dwelling. 

And  slowly  learns  the  world  the  truth 
That  makes  us  all  thy  debtor, — 

That  holy  life  is  more  than  rite, 
And  spirit  more  than  letter  ; 

That  they  who  differ  pole-wide  serve 
Perchance  the  common  Master, 

And  other  sheep  He  hath  than  they 
Who  graze  one  narrow  pasture  ! 

For  truth's  worst  foe  is  he  who  claims 

To  act  as  God's  avenger, 
And  deems,  beyond  his  sentry-beat, 

The  crystal  walls  in  danger  ! 

Who  sets  for  heresy  his  traps 
Of  verbal  quirk  and  quibble, 

And  weeds  the  garden  of  the  Lord 
With  Satan's  borrowed  dibble. 

To-day  our  hearts  like  organ  keys 
One  Master's  touch  are  feeling  ; 

The  branches  of  a  common  Vine 
Have  only  leaves  of  healing. 

Co-workers,  yet  from  varied  f  elds, 
We  share  this  restful  nooning  ; 

The  Quaker  with  the  Baptist  here 
Believes  in  close  communing. 

Forgive,  dear  saint,  the  playful  tone, 
Too  light  for  thy  deserving  ; 

Thanks  for  thy  generous  faith  in  man, 
Thy  trust  in  God  unswerving. 

Still  echo  in  the  hearts  of  men 
The  words  that  thou  hast  spoken  ; 

No  forge  of  hell  can  weld  again 
The  fetters  thou  hast  broken. 

The  pilgrim  needs  a  pass  no  more 

From  Roman  or  Genevan  ; 
Thought-free,  no  ghostly  tollman  keeps 

Henceforth  the  road  to  Heaven ! 


"THE  LAURELS." 

AT  THE  TWENTIETH  AND  LAST   ANNIVERSARY. 

FROM  these  wild  rocks  I  look  to-day 
O'er  leagues  of  dancing  waves,  and  see 

The  far,  low  coast-line  stretch  away 
To  where  our  river  meets  the  sea. 

The  light  wind  blowing  off  the  land 
Is  burdened  with  old  voices  ;  through 

Shut  eyes  I  see  how  lip  and  hand 
The  greeting  of  old  days  renew. 

0  friends  whose  hearts  still  keep  their  prime, 
Whose  bright  example  warms  and  cheers, 

Ye  teach  us  how  to  smile  at  Time, 
And  set  to  music  all  his  years  ! 

1  thank  you  for  sweet  summer  days, 
For  pleasant  memories  lingering  long, 

For  joyful  meetings,  fond  delays, 
And  ties  of  friendship  woven  strong. 

As  for  the  last  time,  side  by  side, 
You  tread  the  paths  familiar  grown, 

I  reach  across  the  severing  tide, 

And  blend  my  farewells  with  your  own. 


Make  room,  O  river  of  our  home  ! 

For  other  feet  in  place  of  ours, 
And  in  the  summers  yet  to  come, 

Make  glad  another  Feast  of  Flowers  ! 

Hold  in  thy  mirror,  calm  and  deep, 
The  pleasant  pictures  thou  hast  seen  ; 

Forget  thy  lovers  not,  but  keep 

Our  memory  like  thy  laurels  green. 

ISLE  OF  SHOALS,  1th  mo.,  1870. 


HYMN 

FOR  THE    CELEBRATION   OF   EMANCIPATION  AT 
NEWBURYPORT. 

NOT  unto  us  who  did  but  seek 

The  word  that  burned  within  to  speak, 

Not  unto  us  this  day  belong 

The  triumph  and  exultant  song. 

Upon  us  fell  in  early  youth 
The  burden  of  unwelcome  truth, 
And  left  us,  weak  and  frail  and  few, 
Ihe  censor's  painful  work  to  do. 

Thenceforth  or.r  life  a  fight  became. 
The  air  we  breathed  was  hot  with  blame  ; 
For  not  with  gauged  and  softened  tone 
We  made  the  bondsman's  cause  our  own. 

We  bore,  as  Freedom's  hope  fcrloin, 
The  private  hate,  the  public  scorn  ; 
Yet  held  through  all  the  paths  we  trod 
Our  faith  in  man  and  trust  in  God. 

We  prayed  and  hoped ;  but  still,  with  a. we, 
The  coming  of  the  sword  we  saw  ; 
We  heard  the  nearing  steps  of  doom, 
We  saw  the  shade  of  things  to  come. 

In  grief  which  they  alone  can  feel 
Who  from  a  mother's  wrong  appeal, 
With  blended  lines  of  fear  and  hope 
We  cast  our  country's  horoscope. 

For  still  within  her  house  of  life 
We  marked  the  lurid  sign  of  strife, 
And  poisoning  and  imbittering  all, 
We  saw  the  star  of  Wormwood  fall. 

Deep  as  our  love  for  her  became 
Our  hate  of  all  that  wrought  her  shame, 
And  if,  thereby,  with  tongue  and  pen 
We  erred, — we  were  but  mortal  men. 

We  hoped  for  peace ;  our  eyes  survey 
The  blood-red  dawn  of  Freedom's  day ; 
We  prayed  for  love  to  loose  the  chain  ; 
'T  is  shorn  by  battle's  axe  in  twain  ! 

Nor  skill  nor  strength  nor  zeal  cf  ours 
Has  mined  and  heaved  the  hostile  towers ; 
Not  by  our  hands  is  tuined  the  key 
That  sets  the  sighing  captives  free. 

A  redder  sea  than  Egypt's  wave 
Is  piled  and  parted  for  the  slave  ; 
A  darker  cloud  moves  on  in  light ; 
A  fiercer  fire  is  guide  by  night ! 

The  praise,  O  Lord  !  is  Thine  alone, 
In  Thy  own  way  Thy  work  is  done  ! 
Our  poor  gifts  at  Thy  feet  we  cast, 
To  whom  be  glory,  first  and  last ! 

1865. 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 


257 


THE 


PILGEIM, 


AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


FRANCIS  DANIEL   PASTORIUS. 

THE  beginnings  of  German  emigration  to  America  may 
be  traced  to  the  personal  influence  of  William  Perm, 
who  in  1677  visited  the  Continent,  and  made  the  ac 
quaintance  of  an  intelligent  and  highly  cultivated  circle 
of  Pietists,  or  Mystics,  who,  reviving  in  the  seventeenth 
century  the  spiritual  faith  and  worship  of  Tauler  and 
the  "  Friends  of  God"  in  the  fourteenth,  gathered  about 
the  pastor  Spener,  and  the  young  and  beautiful  Eleonora 
Johanna  Von  Merlau.  In  this  circle  originated  the 
Frankfort  Land  Company,  which  bought  of  William 
Penn,  the  Governor  of  Pennsylvania,  a  tract  of  land 
near  the  new  city  of  Philadelphia. 

The  company's  agent  in  the  New  World  was  a  rising 
young  lawyer,  Francis  Daniel  Pastorius,  son  of  Judge 
Pastorius,  of  Windsheim,  who,  at  the  age  of  seventeen, 
entered  the  University  of  Altorf.  He  studied  law  at 
Strasburg.  Basle,  and  Jena,  and  at  Ratisbon,  the  seat  of 
the  Imperial  Government,  obtained  a  practical  knowl 
edge  of  international  polity.  Successful  in  all  his  exam 
inations  and  disputations,  he  received  the  degree  of 
Doctor  of  Law  at  Nuremberg  in  16T6.  In  1679  he  was  a 
law  lecturer  at  Frankfort,  where  he  became  deeply  in 
terested  in  the  teachings  of  Dr.  Spener.  In  lttSO-81  he 
travelled  in  France,  England,  Ireland,  and  Italy  with 
his  friend  Herr  Von  Rodeck.  4-I  was,"  he  say*,  "glad 
to  enjoy  again  the  company  of  my  Christian  friends, 
rather  than  be  with  Von  Ilodeck  feasting  and  dancing." 
In  1683,  in  company  with  a  small  number  of  German 
Friends,  he  emigrated  to  America,  settling  upon  the 
Frankfort  Company's  tract  between  the  Schuylkill  and 
the  Delaware  Rivers.  The  township  was  divided  into 
four  hamlets,  namely,  Germantown,  Krisheim,  Crefleld, 
and  Sommerhausen.  Soon  after  his  arrival  he  united 
himself  with  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  became  one  of 
its  most  able  and  devoted  members,  as  well  as  the  recog 
nized  head  and  lawgiver  of  the  settlement.  He  married, 
two  years  after  his  arrival,  Anneke  (Anna),  daughter  of 
Dr.  Klosterman,  of  Muhlheim. 

In  the  year  1638  he  drew  up  a  memorial  against 
slaveholding,  which  was  adopted  by  the  Germantown 
Friends  and  sent  up  to  the  Monthly  Meeting,  and  thence 
to  the  Yearly  Meeting  at  Philadelphia.  It  is  noteworthy 
as  the  first  protest  made  by  a  religious  body  against  Negro 
Slavery.  The  original  document  was  discovered  in  1844 
by  the  Philadelphia  antiquarian,  Nathan  Kite,  and  pub 
lished  in  "The  Friend"  (Vol.  XVIII.,  No.  16;.  It  is  a 
bold  and  direct  appeal  to  the  best  instincts  of  the  heart. 
'•  Have  not,"  he  asks,  "these  negroes  as  much  right  to 
fight  for  their  freedom  as  you  have  to  keep  them 
slaves  ?  " 

Under  the  wise  direction  of  Pastorius,  the  German- 
town  settlement  grew  and  prospered.  The  inhabitants 
planted  orchards  and  vineyards,  and  surrounded  them 
selves  with  souvenirs  of  their  old  home.  A  large  number 
of  them  were  linen- weavers,  as  well  as  small  farmers. 
The  Quakers  were  the  principal  sect,  but  men  of  all  re 
ligions  were  tolerated,  and  lived  together  in  harmony. 
In  1692"  Richard  Frame  published,  in  what  he  called 
verse,  a  "  Description  of  Pennsylvania,"  in  which  he 
alludes  to  the  settlement: — 

'  The  German  town  of  which  I  spoke  before, 
Which  is  at  least  in  length  one  mile  or  mare. 
Where  lives  High  German  people  and  Low  Dutch, 
Whose  trade  in  wsaving  linen  cloth  is  much,— 
There  grows  the  flax,  as  also  you  may  know 
That  from  the  same  they  do  divide  the  tow. 
Their  trade  suits  well  their  habitation,— 
We  find  convenience  for  their  occupation." 

Pastorius  seems  to  have  been  on  intimate  terms  with 
William  Penn,  Thomas  Lloyd,  Chief  Justice  Logan, 
Thomas  Story,  and  other  leading  men  in  the  Province 
belonging  to  his  own  religious  society,  as  also  with  Kel- 
pius,  the  learned  Mystic"of  the  Wissahickon,  with  the 
pastor  of  the  Swedes'  church,  and  the  leaders  of  the 
Mennonites.  He  wrote  a  description  of  Pennsylvania, 
vhich  was  published  at  Frankfort  and  Leipsic  in  1700 

17 


and  1701.  His  "Lives  of  the  Saints,"  etc.,  written  in 
German  and  dedicated  to  Prof.  Schurmberg,  his  old 
teacher,  was  published  in  1690.  He  left  behind  him 
many  unpublished  manuscripts,  covering  a  very  wide 
range  of  subjects,  most  of  which  are  now  lost.  One  huge- 
manuscript  folio,  entitled  ''Hive  Beestock,  Melliotro- 
pheum  Alucar,  or  IJusca  Apium,"  still  remains,  contain 
ing  one  thousand  pages  with  about  one  hundred  lines  to 
a  page.  It  is  a  medley  of  knowledge  and  fancy,  history, 
philosophy,  and  poetry,  written  in  seven  languages.  A 
large  portion  of  his  poetry  is  devoted  to  the  pleasures  of 
gardening,  the  description  of  flowers,  and  the  care  of 
bees.  The  following  specimen  of  his  punning  Latin  is 
addressed  to  an  orchard-pilferer  :— 

"Quisquis  in  haec  furtim  reptas  vmdana  nostra 
Tangere  fallaci  poma  < -aveto  manu, 
Si  non  obsequens  faxit  Deus  omne  quod  opto. 
Cum  malis  nostris  ut  mala  cuncta  f eras.'' 

Professor  Oswald  Seidensticker,  to  whose  papers  in 
Der  Deutsche  Pioneer  and  that  able  periodical  the 
"  Penn  Monthly,"  of  Philadelphia,  I  am  indebted  for 
many  of  the  foregoing  facts  in  regard  to  the  German 
pilgrims  of  the  New  World,  thus  closes  his  notice  of 
Pastorius  : — 

"  No  tombstone,  not  even  a  record  of  burial,  indicates 
where  his  remains  have  found  their  last  resting-place, 
and  the  pardonable  desire  to  associate  the  homage  due 
to  this  distinguished  man  with  some  visible  memento 
cannot  be  gratified.  There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
he  was  interred  in  any  other  place  than  the  Friends1  old 
burying-ground  in  Germantown,  though  the  fact  is  not 
attested  by  any  definite  source  of  information.  After 
all,  this  obliteration  of  the  last  trace  of  his  earthly  ex 
istence  is  but  typical  of  what  has  overtaken  the  times 
which  he  represents ;  that  Germantown  which  he 
founded,  which  saw  him  live  and  move,  is  at  present 
but  a  quaint  idyl  of  the  past,  almost  a  myth,  barely 
remembered  and  little  cared  for  by  the  keener  race  that 
has  succeeded." 

The  Pilgrims  of  Plymouth  have  not  lacked  historian 
and  poet.  Justice  has  been  done  to  their  faith,  courage, 
and  self-sacrifice,  and  to  the  mighty  influence  of  their 
endeavors  to  establish  righteousness  on  the  earth.  The 
Quaker  pilgrims  of  Pennsylvania,  seeking  the  same  ob 
ject  by  different  means,  have  rot  been  equally  fortunate. 
The  power  of  their  testimony  for  truth  and  holiness, 
peace  and  freedom,  enforced  only  by  what  Milton  calls 
"the  unresistible  might  of  meekness,"  has  been  felt 
through  two  centuries  in  the  amelioration  of  penal  sever- 
ities,  the  abolition  of  slavery,  the  reform  of  the  erring, 
the  relief  of  the  poor  and  suffering, — felt,  in  brief,  in 
every  step  of  human  progress.  But  of  the  men  them 
selves,  with  the  single  exception  of  William  Pent), 
scarcely  anything  is  known.  Contrasted,  from  the  out 
set,  with  the  stern,  aggressive  Puritans  of  New  England, 
they  have  come  to  be  regarded  as  "a  feeble  folk,"  with 
a  personality  as  doubtful  as  their  unrecorded  graves. 
They  were  not  soldiers,  like  Miles  Standish  ;  they  had 
no  figure  so  picturesque  as  Vane,  no  lender  so  rashly 
brave  and  haughty  as  Endicott.  No  Cotton  Mather 
wrote  their  Magnalia ;  they  had  no  awful  drama  of 
supernaturalism  in  which  Satan  and  his  angels  were 
actors ;  and  the  only  witch  mentioned  in  their  simple 
annals  was  a  poor  old  Swedish  woman,  who,  on  com 
plaint  of  her  countrywomen,  was  tried  and  acquitted  of 
everything  but  imbecility  and  folly.  Nothing  but  com 
monplace  offices  of  civility  came  to  pass  between  them 
and  the  Indians ;  indeed,  their  enemies  taunted  them 
with  the  fact  that  the  savages  did  not  regard  them  as 
Christians,  but  just  such  men  as  themselves.  Yet  it 
must  be  apparent  to  every  careful  observer  of  the  pro 
gress  of  American  civilization  that  its  two  principal  cur 
rents  had  their  sources  in  the  entirely  opposite  directions 
of  the  Puritan  and  Quaker  colonies.  To  use  the  words 
of  a  late  writer:  *  "The  historical  forces,  with  which 
no  others  may  be  compared  in  their  influence  on  the 


Mttlford's  Nation,  pp.  267,  268. 


258 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 


people,  have  been  those  of  the  Puritan  and  the  Quaker. 
The  strength  of  the  one  was  in  the  confession  of  an  in 
visible  Presence,  a  righteous,  eternal  Will,  which  would 
establish  righteousness  on  earth  ;  and  thence  arose  the 
conviction  of  a  direct  personal  responsibility,  which 
could  be  tempted  by  no  external  splendor  and  could  be 
shaken  by  no  internal  agitation,  and  could  not  be 
evaded  or  transferred.  The  strength  of  the  other  was 
the  witness  in  the  human  spirit  to  an  eternal  Word,  an 
Inner  Voice  which  spoke  to  each  alone,  while  yet  it 
spoke  to  every  man  ;  a  Light  which  each  was  to  follow, 
and  which  yet  was  the  light  of  the  world  ;  and  all  other 
voices  were  silent  before  this,  and  the  solitary  path 
whither  it  led  was  more  sacred  than  the  worn  ways  of 
cathedral-aisles." 

It  will  be  sufficiently  apparent  to  the  reader  that,  in 
the  poem  which  follows,  I  have  attempted  nothing 
beyond  a  study  of  the  life  and  times  of  the  Pennsylvania 
colonist, — a  simple  picture  of  a  noteworthy  man  and  his 
locality.  The  colors  of  my  sketch  are  all  very  sober, 
toned  down  to  the  quiet  and  dreamy  atmosphere  through 
which  its  subject  is  visible.  Whether,  in  the  glare  a:id 
tumult  of  the  present  time,  such  a  picture  will  find  favor 
may  well  be  questioned.  I  only  know  that  it  has  be 
guiled  for  me  some  hours  of  weariness,  and  that,  what 
ever  may  be  its  measure  of  public  appreciation,  it  has 
been  to  me  its  own  reward. 

J.  G.  W. 

AJIESBUBT,  5th  mo.,  1872. 


HAIL  to  posterity! 
Hail,  future  men  of  Germanopolis  ! 

Let  the  young  generations  yet  to  be 
Look  kindly  upon  this. 

Think  how  your  fathers  left  their  native  land, — 
Dear  German-land  !     O  sacred  hearths  and 

homes  ! — 
And,  where  the  wild  beast  roams, 

In  patience  planned 
New  forest-homes  beyond  the  mighty  sea, 

There  undisturbed  and  free 
To  live  as  brothers  of  one  family, 
What  pains  and  cares  befell, 

What  trials  and  what  fears, 
Remember,  and  wherein  we  have  done  well 
Follow  our  footsteps,  men  of  coming  years  ! 
Where  we  have  failed  to  do 
Aright,  or  wisely  live, 
Fe  warned  by  us,  the  better  way  pursue, 
And,  knowing  we  were  human,  even  as  you, 

Pity  us  and  forgive  ! 
Farewell,  Posterity  ! 
Farewell,  dear  Germany  ! 
Forevermoie  farewell ! 

From  the  Latin  of  FRANCIS  DANIEL  PASTORIUS  in  the 
Germantown  Records.    1688. 


PRELUDE. 

I  SING  the  Pilgrim  of  a  softer  clime 

And  milder  speech  than  those  brave  men's  who 

brought 
To  the  ice  and  iron  of  our  winter  time 

A  will  as  firm,  a  creed  as  stern,  and  wrought 

With  one   mailed   hand,   and   with  the  other 

fought. 
Simply,  as  fits  my  theme,  in  homely  rhyme 

I  sing  the  blue-eyed  German  Spener  taught, 
Through  whose  veiled,  mystic  faith  the  Inward 
Light, 

Steady  and  still,  an  easy  brightness,  shone, 
Transfiguring  all  things  in  its  radiance  white. 
The  garland  which  his  meekness  never  sought 

I  bring  him  ;  over  fields  of  harvest  sown 

With  seeds  of  blessing,  now  to  ripeness  grown, 
I  birl  the  sower  pass  before  the  reapers'  sight. 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 

I  NEVER  in  tenderer  quiet  lapsed  the  day 
!  From  Pennsylvania's  vales  of  spring  away, 
Where,  forest-walled,  the  scattered  hamlets  lay 

i  Along  the  wedded  rivers.     One  long  bar 

|  Of  purple  cloud,  on  which  the  evening  star 
Shone  like  a  jewel  on  a  scimitar, 

i 

I  Held  the  sky's  golden   gateway.     Through  the 

deep 

Hush  of  the  woods  a  murmur  seemed  to  creep, 
The  Schuylkill  whispering  in  a  voice  of  sleep. 

|  All  else  was  still.     The  oxen  from  their  ploughs 
\  Rested  at  last,  and  from  their  long  day's  browse 
Came  the  dun  files  of   Krisheim's   home-bound 


And  the  young  city,  round  whose  virgin  zone 
;  The  rivers  like  two  mighty  arms  were  thrown, 
i  Marked  by  the  smoke  of  evening  fires  alone, 

Lay  in  the  distance,  lovely  even  then 
With  its  fair  women  and  its  stately  men 
Gracing  the  forest  court  of  William  Penn, 

Urban  yet  sylvan  ;  in  its  rough-hewn  frames 
Of  oak  and  pine  the  dryads  held  their  claims, 
And  lent  its  streets    their  pleasant    woodland 
names. 

Anna  Pastorius  down  the  leafy  iane 

Looked  city- ward,  then  stooped  to  prune  again 

Her  vines  and  simples,  with  a  sigh  of  pain. 

For  fast  the  streaks  of  ruddy  sunset  paled 
In  the  oak  clearing,  and,  as  daylight  failed, 
Slow,  overhead,  the  dusky  night-birds  sailed. 

Again  she  looked  :  between  green  walls  of  shade, 
With  low-bent  head  as  if  with  sorrow  weighed, 
Daniel  Pastorius  slowly  came  and  said, 

"God's  peace  be  with  thee,  Anna!"    Then  he 

stood 

Silent  before  her,  wrestling  with  the  mood 
Of  one  who  sees  the  evil  and  not  good. 

"  What  is  it,  my  Pastorius  ?  "     As  she  spoke, 
A  slow,  faint  smile  across  his  features  broke, 
Sadder  than  tears.     "  Dear  heart,"  he  said,  "our 
folk 

"Are  even  as  others.    Yea,  our  goodliest  Friends 
Are  frail ;  our  elders  have  their  selfish  ends, 
And  few  dare  trust  the  Lord  to  make  amends 

"  For  duty's  loss.     So  even  our  feeble  word 
For  the  dumb  slaves  the  startled  meeting  heard 
As  if  a  stone  its  quiet  water  stirred ; 

"And,  as  the  clerk  ceased  reading,  there  began 
A  ripple  of  dissent  which  downward  ran 
In  widening  circles,  as  from  man  to  man. 

"  Somewhat  was  said  of  running  before  sent, 
Of  tender  fear  that  some  their  guide  outwent, 
Troublers  of  Israel.     I  was  scarce  intent 

"On  hearing,  for  behind  the  reverend  row 
Of  gallery  Friends,  in  dumb  and  piteous  show 
I  saw,  methought,  dark  faces  full  of  woe. 

"And,  in  the  spirit,  I  was  taken  where 
They  toiled  and  suffered ;  I  was  made  aware 
Of  shame  and  wrath  and  anguish  and  despair  ! 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 


259 


"Touching  with  finger-tip  an  aloe.' 


"And  while  the  meeting  smothered  our  poor  plea 
With  cautious  phrase,  a  Voice  there  seemed  to  be, 
4  As  ye  have  done  to  these  ye  do  to  me  ! ' 

u  So  it  all  passed ;  and  the  old  tithe  went  on 
Of  anise,  mint,  and  cumin,  till  the  sun 
Set,  leaving  still  the  weightier  work  undone. 

41  Help,  for  the  good  man  faileth  !  Who  is  strong, 
If  these  be  weak  ?  Who  shall  rebuke  the  wrong, 
If  these  consent  ?  How  long,  O  Lord !  how  long  !  " 

He  ceased  ;  and,  bound  in  spirit  with  the  bound, 
With  folded  arms,  and  eyes  that  sought  the 

ground, 
Walked  musingly  his  little  garden  round. 

About  him,  beaded  with  the  falling  dew, 

Rare  plants  of  power  and  herbs  of  healing  grew, 

Such  as  Van  Helmont  and  Agrippa  knew. 

For,  by  the  lore  of  Gorlitz'  gentle  sage, 
With  the  mild  mystics  of  his  dreamy  age 
He  read  the  herbal  signs  of  nature's  page. 

As  once  he  heard  in  sweet  Von  Merlau's75  bowers 
Fair  as  herself,  in  boyhood's  happy  hours, 
Tho  pious  Spener  read  his  creed  in  flowers. 

u  The  dear  Lord  give  us  patience  !  "  said  his  wife, 

Touching  with  finger-tip  an  aloe,  rife 

With  leaves  sharp-pointed  like  an  Aztec  knife. 

Or  Carib  spear,  a  gift  to  William  Penn 
From  the  rare  gardens  of  John  Evelyn, 
Brought  from  the  Spanish  Main  by  merchantmen. 

' '  See  this  strange  plant  its  steady  purpose  hold, 
And,  year  by  year,  its  patient  leaves  unfold, 
Till  the  young  eyes  that  watched  it  first  are  old. 


"But  some  time,  thou  hast  told  me,  there  shall 

come 

A  sudden  beauty,  brightness,  and  perfume, 
The  century-moulded  bud  shall  burst  in  bloom. 

' '  So  may  the  seed  which  hath  been  sown  to-day 
Grow  with  the  years,  and,  atter  long  delay, 
Break  into  bloom,  and  God's  eternal  Yea 

"  Answer  at  last  the  patient  prayers  of  them 
Who  now,  by  faith  alone,  behold  its  stem 
Crowned  with  the  flowers  of  Freedom's  diadem. 

"Meanwhile,  to  feel  and  suffer,  work  and  wait 
Remains  for  us.     The  wrong  indeed  is  great, 
But  love  and  patience  conquer  soon  or  late." 

u  Well  hast  thou  said,  my  Anna  !  "    Tenderer 
Than  youth's  caress  upon  the  head  of  her 
Pastorius  laid  his  hand.     "  Shall  we  demur 


"  Because  the  vision  tarrieth  ?    In  an  hour 

We  dream  not  of  the  slow-grown  bud  may  flower, 

Anil  what  was  sown  in  weakness  rise  in  power  !  " 

Then  through  the  vine-draped  door  whose  legend 

read, 

"  PROCUL  ESTE  PROPHANI  !  "    Anna  led  • 
To  where  their  child  upon  his  little  bed 

Looked  up  and  smiled.     "  Dear  heart,"  she  said, 

"it  we 

Must  bearers  of  a  heavy  burden  be, 
Our  boy,  God  willing,  yet  the  day  shall  see 

"  When,  from  the  gallery  to  the  farthest  seat, 
Slave  and  slave-owner  shall  no  longer  meet, 
But  all  sit  equal  at  the  Master's  feet." 


260 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 


On  the  stone  hearth  the  blazing  walnut  block 
Set  the  low  walls  a-glimmer,  showed  the  cock 
Rebuking  Peter  on  the  Van  Wyck  clock, 

Shone  on  old  tomes  of  law  and  physic,  side 
By  side  with  Fox  and  Behmen,  played  at  hide 
And  seek  with  Anna,  midst  her  household  pride 

Of  flaxen  webs,  and  on  the  table,  bare 
Of  costly  cloth  or  silver  cup,  but  where, 
Tasting  the  fat  shads  of  the  Delaware, 

The  courtly  Penn  had  praised  the  goodwif  e's  cheer, 
And  quoted  Horace  o'er  her  home-brewed  beer, 
Till  even  grave  Pastorius  smiled  to  hear. 

In  such  a  home,  beside  the  Schuylkill's  wave, 
He  dwelt  in  peace  with  God  and  man,  and  gave 
Food  to  the  poor  and  shelter  to  the  slave. 

For  all  too  soon  the  New  World's  scandal  shamed 
The  righteous  code  by  Penn  and  Sidney  framed, 
And  men  withheld  the  human  rights  they  claimed. 

And  slowly  wealth  and  station  sanction  lent, 
And  hardened  avarice,  on  its  gains  intent, 
Stifled  the  inward  whisper  of  dissent. 

Yet  all  the  while  the  burden  rested  sore 
On  tender  hearts.     At  last  Pastorius  bore 
Their  warning  message  to  the  Church's  door 

In  God's  name ;  and  the  leaven  of  the  word 
Wrought  ever  after  in  the  souls  who  heard, 
And  a  dead  conscience  in  its  grave-clothes  stirred 

To  troubled  life,  and  urged  the  vain  excuse 
Of  Hebrew  custom,  patriarchal  use, 
Good  in  itself  if  evil  in  abuse. 

Gravely  Pastorius  listened,  not  the  less 
Discerning  through  the  decent  fig-leaf  dress 
Of  the  poor  plea  its  shame  of  selfishness. 

One  Scripture  rule,  at  least,  was  unforgot ; 
He  hid  the  outcast,  and  bewrayed  him  not ; 
And,  when  his  prey  the  human  hunter  sought, 

He  scrupled  not,  while  Anna's  wise  delay 

And  proffered  cheer  prolonged  the  master's  stay, 

To  speed  the  black  guest  safely  on  his  way. 

Yet,  who  shall  guess  his  bitter  grief  who  lends 
His  life  to  some  great  cause,  and  finds  his  friends 
Shame  or  betray  it  for  their  private  ends  ? 

How  felt  the  Master  when  his  chosen  strove 
In  childish  folly  for  their  seats  above ; 
And  that  fond  mother,  blinded  by  her  love, 

Besought  him  that  her  sons,  beside  his  throne, 
Might  sit  on  either  hand  ?     Amidst  his  own 
A  stranger  oft,  companionless  and  lone, 

God's  priest  and  prophet  stands.     The  martyr's 

pain 

Is  not  alone  from  scourge  and  cell  and  chain  ; 
Sharper  the  pang  when,  shouting  in  his  train, 

His  weak  disciples  by  their  lives  deny 
The  loud  hosannas  of  their  daily  cry, 
And  make  their  echo  of  his  truth  a  lie. 

His  forest  home  no  hermit's  cell  he  found, 
Guests,  motley-minded,  drew  his  hearth  around, 
And  held  armed  truce  upon  its  neutral  ground. 

Their  Indian  chiefs  with  battle-bows  unstrung, 
Strong,  hero-limbed,  like  those  whom  Homer  sung, 
Pastorius  fancied,  when  the  world  was  young, 


Came  with  their  tawny  women,  lithe  and  tall, 
Like  bronzes  in  his  friend  Von  Rodeck's  hall,' 
Comely,  if  black,  and  not  unpleasing  all. 

There  hungry  folk  in  homespun  drab  and  gray 
Drew  round  his  board  on  Monthly  Meeting  day, 
Genial,  half  merry  in  their  friendly  way. 

Or,  haply,  pilgrims  from  the  Fatherland, 
Weak,  timid,  homesick,  slow  to  understand 
The  New  World's  promise,  sought  his  helping  hand. 

Or  painful  Kelpius™  from  his  hermit  den 
By  Wissahickon,  maddest  of  good  men, 
Dreamed  o'er  the  Chiliast  dreams  of  Petersen. 

Deep  in  the  woods,  where  the  small  river  slid 
Snake-like  in  shade,  the  Helmstadt  Mystic  hid, 
Weird  as  a  wizard  over  arts  forbid, 

Reading  the  books  of  Daniel  and  of  John, 

And   Behmen's  Morning-Redness,    through    the 

Stone 
Of  Wisdom,  vouchsafed  to  his  eyes  alone, 

Whereby  he  read  what  man  ne'er  read  before, 
And  saw  the  visions  man  shall  see  no  more, 
Till  the  great  angel,  striding  sea  and  shore, 

Shall  bid  all  flesh  await,  on  land  or  ships, 
The  warning  trump  of  the  Apocalypse, 
Shattering  the  heavens  before  the  dread  eclipse. 

Or  meek -eyed  Mennonist  his  bearded  chin 
Leaned  o'er  the  gate ;  or  Ranter,  pure  within, 
Aired  his  perfection  in  a  world  of  sin. 

Or,  talking  of  old  home  scenes,  Op  den  Graaf 
Teased  the  low  back-log  with  his  shodden  staff, 
Till  the  red  embers  broke  into  a  laugh 

And  dance  of  flame,  as  if  they  fain  would  cheer 
The  rugged  face,  half  tender,  half  austere, 
Touched  with  the  pathos  of  a  homesick  tear ! 

Or  Sluyter,77  saintly  familist,  whose  word 
As  law  the  Brethren  of  the  Manor  heard, 
Announced  the  speedy  terrors  of  the  Lord, 

And  turned,  like  Lot  at  Sodom,  from  his  race, 
Above  a  wrecked  world  with  complacent  face 
Riding  secure  upon  his  plank  of  grace  ! 

Haply,  from  Finland's  birchen  groves  exiled, 
Manly  in  thought,  in  simple  ways  a  child, 
His  white  hair  floating  round  his  visage  mild, 

The  Swedish  pastor  sought  the  Quaker's  door. 
Pleased  from  his  neighbor's  lips  to  hear  once  more 
His  long-disused  and  half -forgotten  lore. 

For  both  could  baffle  Babel's  lingual  curse, 
And  speak  in  Bion's  Doric,  and  rehearse 
Cleanthes'  hymn  or  Virgil's  sounding  verse. 

And  oft  Pastorius  and  the  meek  old  man 
Argued  as  Quaker  and  as  Lutheran, 
Ending  in  Christian  love,  as  they  began. 

With  lettered  Lloyd  on  pleasant  morns  he  strayed 
Where  Sommerhausen  over  vales  of  shade 
Looked  miles  away,  by  every  flower  delayed, 

Or  song  of  bird,  happy  and  free  with  one 
Who  loved,  like  him,  to  let  his  memory  run 
Over  old  fields  of  learning,  and  to  sun 

Himself  in  Plato's  wise  philosophies, 
And  dream  with  Philo  over  mysteries 
Whereof  the  dreamer  never  finds  the  keys  ; 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 


261 


To  touch  all  themes  of  thought,  nor  weakly  stop 
For  doubt  of  truth,  but  let  the  buckets  drop 
Deep  down  and  bring  the  hidden  waters  up.73 

For  there  was  freedom  in  that  wakening  time 
Of  tender  souls ;  to  differ  was  not  crime  ; 
The  varying  bells  made  up  the  perfect  chime. 

On  lips  unlike  was  laid  the  altar's  coal, 

The  white,  clear  light,  tradition-colored,  stole 

Through  the  stained  oriel  of  each  human  soul. 

Gathered  from  many  sects,  the  Quaker  brought 

His  old  beliefs,  adjusting  to  the  thought 

That  moved  his  soul  the  creed  his  fathers  taught. 

One  faith  alone,  so  broad  that  all  mankind 
Within  themselves  its  secret  witness  find, 
The  soul's  communion  with  the  Eternal  Mind, 

The  Spirit's  law,  the  Inward  Rule  and  Guide, 
Scholar  and  peasant,  lord  and  serf,  allied, 
The  polished  Penn  and  Cromwell's  Ironside. 

As  still  in  Hemskerck's  Quaker  Meeting,79  face 

By  face  in  Flemish  detail,  we  may  trace 

How  loose-mouthed  boor  and  fine  ancestral  grace 

Sat  in  close  contrast, — the  clipt-headed  churl, 
Broad  market-dame,  and  simple  serving-girl 
By  skirt  of  silk  and  periwig  in  curl ! 

For  soul  touched  soul ;  the  spiritual  treasure- 
trove 

Made  all  men  equal,  none  could  rise  above 
Nor  sink  below  that  level  of  God's  love. 

So,  with  his  rustic  neighbors  sitting  down, 
The  homespun  frock  beside  the  scholar's  gown, 
Pastorius  to  the  manners  of  the  town 

Added  the  freedom  of  the  woods,  and  sought 
The  bookless  wisdom  by  experience  taught, 
And  learned  to  love  his  new-found  home,  while 
not 

Forgetful  of  the  old  ;  the  seasons  went 
Their  rounds,  and  somewhat  to  his  spirit  lent 
Of  their  own  calm  and  measureless  content. 

Glad  even  to  tears,  he  heard  the  robin  sing 
His  song  of  welcome  to  the  Western  spring, 
And  bluebird  borrowing  from  the  sky  his  wing. 

And  when  the  miracle  of  autumn  came, 
And  all  the  woods  with  many-colored  flame 
Of  splendor,  making  summer's  greenness  tame, 

Burned,  unconsumed,  a  voice  without  a  sound 
Spake  to  him  from  each  kindled  bush  around, 
And    made    the    strange,    new    landscape    holy 
ground ! 

And  when  the  bitter  north- wind,  keen  and  swift, 
Swept  the  white  street  and  piled  the  dooryard 

drift, 
He  exercised,  as  Friends  might  say,  his  gift 

Of  verse,  Dutch,  English,  Latin,  like  the  hash 

Of  corn  and  beans  in  Indian  succotash  ; 

Dull,  doubtless,  but  with  here  and  there  a  flash 

Of  wit  and  fine  conceit, — the  good  man's  play 
Of  quiet  fancies,  meet  to  while  away 
The  slow  hours  measuring  off  an  idle  day. 

At  evening,  while  his  wife  put  on  her  look 
Of  love's  endurance,  from  its  niche  he  took 
The  written  pages  of  his  ponderous  book. 


And  read,  in  half  the  languages  of  man, 
His  "Rusca  Apium,"  which  with  bees  began 
And  through  the  gamut  of  creation  ran. 

Or,  now  and  then,  the  missive  of  some  friend 
In  gray  A^ltorf  or  storied  Niirnberg  penned 
Dropped  in  upon  him  like  a  guest  to  spend 

The  night  beneath  his  roof -tree.     Mystical 
The  fair  Von  Merlau  spake  as  waters  fall 
And  voices  sound  in  dreams,  and  yet  withal 

Human  and  sweet,  as  if  each  far,  low  tone, 

Over  the  roses  of  her  gardens  blown 

Brought  the  warm  sense  of  beauty  all  her  own. 

Wise  Spener  questioned  what  his  friend  could  trace 
Of  spiritual  influx  or  of  saving  grace 
In  the  wild  natures  of  the  Indian  race. 

And  learned  Schurmberg,  fain,  at  times,  to  look 
From  Talmud,  Koran,  Veds,  and  Pentateuch, 
Sought  out  his  pupil  in  his  far-off  nook, 

To  query  with  him  of  climatic  change, 

Of  bird,  beast,  reptile,  in  his  forest  range, 

Of  flowers  and  fruits  and  simples  new  and  strange. 

And  thus  the  Old  and  New  World  reached  their 

hands 

Across  the  water,  and  the  friendly  lands 
Talked  with  each  other  from  their  severed  strands. 

Pastorius  answered  all :  while  seed  and  root 
Sent  from  his  new  home  grew  to  flower  and  fruit 
Along  the  Rhine  and  at  the  Spessart's  foot ; 

And,  in  return,  the  flowers  his  boyhood  knew 
Smiled  at  his  door,  the  same  in  form  and  hue, 
And  on  his  vines  the  Rhenish  clusters  grew. 

No  idler  he ;  whoever  else  might  shirk, 
He  set  his  hand  to  every  honest  work, — 
Farmer  and  teacher,  court  and  meeting  clerk. 

Still  on  the  town  seal  his  device  is  found, 
Grapes,  flax,  and  thread-spool  on  a  trefoil  ground, 
With,  "  VINUM,  LINUM  ET  TEXTRINUM  "  wound. 

One  house  sufficed  for  gospel  and  for  law, 
Where  Paul  and  Grotius,  Scripture  text  and  saw, 
Assured  the  good,  and  held  the  rest  in  awe. 

Whatever  legal  maze  he  wandered  through, 
He  kept  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  in  view, 
And  justice  always  into  mercy  grew. 

No  whipping -post  he  needed,  stocks,  nor  jail, 
Nor  ducking-stool ;  the  orchard-thief  grew  pale 
At  his  rebuke,  the  vixen  ceased  to  rail, 

The  usurer's  grasp  released  the  forfeit  land ; 
The  slanderer  faltered  at  the  witness-stand, 
And  all  men  took  his  counsel  for  command. 

Was  it  caressing  air,  the  brooding  love 

Of  tenderer  skies  than  German  land  knew  of, 

Green  calm  below,  blue  quietness  above, 

Still  flow  of  water,  deep  repose  of  wood 
That,  with  a  sense  of  loving  Fatherhood 
And  childlike  trust  in  the  Eternal  Good, 

Softened  all  hearts,  and  dulled  the  edge  of  hate, 
Hushed  strife,  and  taught  impatient  zeal  to  wait 
The  slow  assurance  of  the  better  state  ? 

Who  knows  what  goadings  in  their  sterner  way 
O'er  jagged  ice,  relieved  by  granite  gray, 
Blew  round  the  men  of  Massachusetts  Bay  ? 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 


What  hate  of  heresy  the  east-wind  woke  ? 
What  hints  of  pitiless  power  and  terror  spoke 
In  waves  that  on  their  iron  coast-line  broke  ? 

Be  it  as  it  may :  w'thin  the  Land  of  Penn 

The  sectary  yielded  to  the  citizen, 

And  peaceful  dwelt  the  many-creeded  men. 

Peace  brooded  over  all.     No  trumpet  stung 
The  air  to  madness,  and  no  steeple  flung 
Alarums  down  from  bells  at  midnight  rung. 

The  land  slept  well.     The  Indian  from  his  face 
Washed  all  his  war-paint  off,  and  in  the  place 
Of  battle-marches  sped  the  peaceful  chase, 


Men  who  had  eaten  slavery's  bitter  bread 
In  Indian  isles ;  pale  women  who  had  bled 
Under  the  hangman's  lash,  and  bravely  said 

God's  message  through  their  prison's  iron  bars  ; 
And  gray  old  soldier-converts,  seamed  with  scars 
From  every  stricken  field  of  England's  wars 

Lowly  before  the  Unseen  Presence  knelt 
Each  waiting  heart,  till  haply  some  one  felt 
On  his  moved  lips  the  seal  of  silence  melt. 

Or,  without  spoken  words,  low  breathings  stole 
Of  a  diviner  life  from  soul  to  soul, 
Baptizing  in  one  tender  thought  the  whole. 


Or  wrought  for  wages  at  the  white  man's  side,—     When  shaken  hands  announced  the  meeting  o'er, 
Giving  to  kindness  what  his  native  pride  The  friendly  group  still  lingered  at  the  door, 

And  lazy  freedom  to  all  else  denied.  I  Greeting,  inquiring,  sharing  all  the  store 

And  well  the  curious  scholar  loved  the  old  j  Of  weekly  tidings.     Meanwhile  youth  and  maid 

Traditions  that  his  swarthy  neighbors  told  |  Down  the  green  vistas  of  the  woodland  strayed, 

By  wigwam-fires  when  nights  were  growing  cold,  j  Whispered  and  smiled  and  oft  their  feet  delayed. 


Discerned  the  fact  round  which  their  fancy  drew 
Its  dreams,  and  held  their  childish  faith  more 

true 
To  God  and  man  than  half  the  creeds  he  knew.80 

The  desert  blossomed  round  him ;    wheat-fields 

rolled 

Beneath  the  warm  wind  waves  of  green  and  gold  ; 
The  planted  ear  returned  its  hundredfold. 

Great  clusters  ripened  in  a  warmer  sun 

Than  that  which  by  the  Rhine  stream  shines 

upon 
The  purpling  hillsides  with  low  vines  o'errun. 

About  each  rustic  porch  the  humming-bird 
Tried  with  light  bill,  that  scarce  a  petal  stirred, 
The  Old  World  flowers  to  virgin  soil  transferred ; 

And  the  first-fruits  of  pear  and  apple,  bending 
The  young  boughs  down,  their  gold  and  russet 

blending, 
Made  glad  his  heart,  familiar  odors  lending 

To  the  fresh  fragrance  of  the  birch  and  pine, 

Life-everlasting,  bay,  and  eglantine, 

And  all  the  subtle  scents  the  woods  combine. 

Fair    First-Day  mornings,    steeped  in    summer 

calm 

Warm,  tender,  restful,  sweet  with  woodland  balm, 
Came  to  him,  like  some  mother-hallowed  psalm 

To  the  tired  grinder  at  the  noisy  wheel 
Of  labor,  winding  off  from  memory's  reel 
A  golden  thread  of  music.     With  no  peal 

Of  bells  to  call  them  to  the  house  of  praise, 
The  scattered  settlers  through  green  forest-ways 
Walked  meeting-ward.     In  reverent  amaze 

The  Indian  trapper  saw  them,  from  the  dim 

Shade  of  the  alders  on  the  rivulet's  rim, 

Seek  the  Great  Spirit's  house  to  talk  with  Him. 

There,  through  the  gathered  stillness  multiplied 
And  made  intense  by  sympathy,  outside 
The  sparrows  sang,  and  the  gold-robin  cried, 

A-swing  upon  his  elm.     A  faint  perfume 
Breathed  through  the  open  windows  of  the  room 
From  locust-trees,  heavy  with  clustered  bloom. 

Thither,  perchance,  sore-tried  confessors  came, 

Whose  fervor  jail  nor  pillory  could  tame, 

Proud  of  the  cropped  ears  meant  to  be  th.ir  shame, 


Did  the  boy's  whistle  answer  back  the  thrushes  ? 
Did  light  girl  laughter  ripple  through  the  bushes 
As  brooks  make  merry  over  roots  and  rushes  ? 

Unvexed  the  sweet  air  seemed.    Without  a  wound 
The  ear  of  silence  heard,  and  every  sound 
Its  place  in  nature's  fine  accordance  found. 

And  solemn  meeting,  summer  sky  and  wood, 
Old  kindly  faces,  youth  and  maidenhood 
Seemed,  like  God's  new  creation,  very  good  ! 

And,  greeting  all  with  quiet  smile  and  word, 
Pastorius  went  his  way.  The  unscared  bird 
Sang  at  his  side  ;  scarcely  the  squirrel  stirred 

At  his  hushed  footstep  on  the  mossy  sod ; 
And,  wheresoe'er  the  good  man  looked  or  trod, 
He  felt  the  peace  of  nature  and  of  God. 

His  social  life  wore  no  ascetic  form, 

He  loved  all  beauty,  without  fear  of  harm, 

And  in  his  veins  his  Teuton  blood  ran  warm. 

Strict  to  himself,  of  other  men  no  spy, 
He  made  his  own  no  circuit-judge  to  try 
The  freer  conscience  of  his  neighbors  by. 

With  love  rebuking,  by  his  life  alone, 
Gracious  and  sweet,  the  better  way  was  shown, 
The  joy  of  one,  who,  seeking  not  his  own, 

And  faithful  to  all  scruples,  finds  at  last 
The  thorns  and  shards  of  duty  overpast, 
And  daily  life,  beyond  his  hope's  forecast, 

Pleasant  and  beautiful  with  sight  and  sound, 
And  flowers  upspringing  in  its  narrow  round, 
And  all  his  days  with  quiet  gladness  crowned. 

He  sang  not ;  but,  if  sometimes  tempted  strong, 
He  hummed  what  seemed  like  Altorf's  Burschen- 

song, 
His  good  wife  smiled,  and  did  not  count  it  wrong. 

For  well  he  loved  his  boyhood's  brother  band ; 
His  memory,  while   he  trod  the  New  WTorld's 

strancl, 
A  double-ganger  walked  the  Fatherland  ! 

If,  when  on  frosty  Christmas  eves  the  light 
Shone  on  his  quiet  heai'th,  he  missed  the  sight 
Of  Yule-log,  Tree,  and  Christ-child  all  in  white ; 

And  closed  his  eyes,  and  listened  to  the  sweet 
Old  wait-songs  sounding  down  his  native  street, 
And  watched  again  the  dancers'  mingling  feet ; 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM.— THE  PAGEANT. 


268 


Yet  not  the  less,  when  once  the  vision 

He  held  the  plain  and  sober  maxims  fast 

Of  the  dear  Friends  with  whom  his  lot  was  cast. 

Still  all  attuned  to  nature's  melodies, 

H3  loved  the  bird's  song  in  his  dooryard  trees, 

And  the  low  hum  of  home-returning  bees  ; 

The  blossomed  flax,  the  tulip-trees  in  bloom 
Down  the  long  street,  the  beauty  and  perfume 
Of  apple-boughs,  the  mingling  light  and  gloom 

Of  Sommerhausan's  woodlands,  woven  through 
With  sun -threads  ;  and  the  music  the  wind  draw, 
Mournful  and  sweet,  from  leaves  it  overblew. 

And  evermore,  beneath  this  outward  sense, 
And  through  the  common  sequence  of  events, 
He  felt  the  guiding  hand  of  Providence 

Reach  out  of  space.     A  Voice  spake  in  his  ear, 

And  lo  !  all  other  voices  far  and  near 

Died  at  that  whisper,  full  of  meanings   clear. 

The  Light  of  Life  shone  round  him  ;  one  by  one 
The  wandering  lights,  that  all  mis-leading  run, 
Went  out  like  candles  paling  in  the  sun. 

That  Light  he  followed,  step  by  stap,  where'er 

It  led,  as  in  the  vision  of  the  seer 

The  wheels  moved  as  the  spirit  in  the  clear 

And  terrible  crystal  moved,  with  all  their  eyes 
Watching  the  living  splendor  sink  or  rise, 
Its  will  their  will,  knowing  no  otherwise. 

Within  himself  he  found  the  law  of  right, 
He  walked  by  faith  and  not  the  letter's  sight, 
And  read  his  Bible  by  the  Inward  Light. 

And  if  sometimes  the  slaves  of  form  and  rule, 
Frozen  in  their  creads  like  fish  in  winter's  pool, 
Tried  the  large  tolerance  of  his  liberal  school, 

His  door  was  free  to  men  of  every  name, 
He  welcomed  all  the  seeking  souls  who  came, 
And  no  man's  faith  he  made  a  cause  of  blame. 

B  it  best  he  loved  in  leisure  hours  to  see 

His  own  dear  Friends  sit  by  him  knee  to  knee, 

In  social  converse,  genial,  frank,  and  free. 

There  sometimes  silence  (it  were  hard  to  tell 
Who  owned  it  first)  upon  the  circla  fell, 
Hushed  Anna's  busy  wheel,  and  laid  its  spell 


On  the  black  boy  who  grimaced  by  the  hearth, 
To  solemnize  his  shining  face  of  mirth  ; 
Only  the  old  clock  ticked  amidst  the  dearth 

Of   sound ;    nor   eye   was  raised  nor  hand   was 

stirred 

In  that  soul-sabbath,  till  at  last  some  word 
Of  tender  counsel  or  low  prayer  was  heard. 

Then  guests,  who  lingered  but  farewell  to  say 
And  take  love's  message,  went  their  homeward 

way; 
So  passed  in  peace  the  guileless  Quaker's  day. 

His  was  the  Christian's  unsung  Age  of  Gold, 
A  truer  idyl  than  the  bards  have  told 
Of  Arno's  banks  or  Arcady  of  old. 

Where  still  the  Friends  their  place  of  burial  keep, 
And  century-rooted  mosses  o'er  it  creep, 
The  Nurnberg  scholar  and  his  helpmeet  sleep. 

And  Anna's  aloe  ?    If  it  flowered  at  last 

In  Bartram's  garden,  did  John  Woolman  cast 

A  glance  upon  it  as  he  meekly  passed  ? 

And  did  a  secret  sympathy  possess 
That  tender  soul,  and  for  the  slave's  redress 
Lend  hope,  strength,  patience  ?    It  were  vain  to 
guess. 

Nay,  were  the  plant  itself  but  mythical, 

Set  in  the  fresco  of  tradition's  wall 

Like  Jotham's  bramble,  mattereth  not  at  alL 

Enough  to  know  that,  through  the  winter's  frost 
And  summer's  heat,  no  seed  of  truth  is  lost, 
And  every  duty  pays  at  last  its  cost. 

For,  ere  Pastorius  left  the  sun  and  air, 
God  sent  the  answer  to  his  life-long  prayer  ; 
The  child  was  born  beside  the  Delaware, 

Who,  in  the  power  of  a  holy  purpose  lends, 

Guided  his  people  unto  nobler  ends, 

And  left  them  worthier  of  the  name  of  Friend*. 

And  lo  !  the  fulness  of  the  time  has  come, 

And  over  all  the  exile's  Western  home, 

From  sea  to  sea  the  flowers  of  freedom  bloom  ! 

And  joy-bells  ring,  and   silver  trumpets  blow  ; 

But  not  for  thee,  Pastorius  !     Even  so 

The  world  forgets,  but  the  wise  angels  know. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  PAGEANT. 

A  SOUND  as  if  from  bells  of  silver, 
Or  elfin  cymbals  smitten  clear, 
Through  the  frost-pictured  panes  I  hsar. 

A  brightness  which  outshines  the  morning, 
A  splendor  brooking  no  delay, 
Beckons  and  tempts  my  feet  away. 

I  have  the  trodden  village  highway 

For  virgin  snow-paths  glimmering  through 
A  Jewelled  elm-tree  avenus  ; 


Where,  keen  against  the  walls  of  sapphire. 
The  gleaming  tree-bolls,  ice-embossed, 
Hold  up  their  chandeliers  of  frost. 

I  tread  in  Orient  halls  enchanted, 

I  dream  the  Saga's  dream  of  caves 
Gem-lit  beneath  the  North  Sea  waves  ! 

I  walk  the  land  of  Eldorado, 

I  touch  its  mimirc  garden  bowers. 
Its  silver  leaves  and  diamond  flowers  ! 

The  flora  of  the  mystic  mine-world 
Around  me  lifts  on  crystal  stems 
The  petals  of  its  clustered  gems  ! 


2(>4 


THE  PAGEANT. 


"A  jewelled  elm- tree  avenue." 


What  miracle  of  weird  transforming 
In  this  wild  work  of  frost  and  light, 
This  glimpse  of  glory  infinite  ! 

This  foregleam  of  the  Holy  City 

L-ke  that  to  him  of  Patmos  given, 

The  white  bride  coming  down  from  heaven  ! 

How  flash  the  ranked  and  mail-clad  alders, 

Through  what  sharp-glancing  spears  of  reeds 
The  brook  its  muffled  water  leads  ! 

Yon  maple,  like  the  bush  of  Hpreb, 

Burns  unconsumed  :  a  white,  cold  fire 
Bays  out  from,  every  grassy  spire. 

Bach  slender  rush  and  spike  of  mullein, 
Low  laurel  shrub  and  drooping  fern, 
Transfigured,  blaze  where'er  I  turn. 

How  yonder  Eth:opian  hemlock 

Crowned  with  his  glistening  circlet  stands  ! 
What  jewels  light  his  swarthy  hands  ! 

Here,  where  the  forest  opens  southward, 
Between  its  hospitable  pin? s, 
As  through  a  door,  the  warm  sun  shines. 

The  iewels  loosen  on  the  branches 

And  lightly,  as  the  soft  winds  blow, 
Fall,  tinkling,  on  tho  ice  below. 

And  through  the  clashing  of  th?ir  cymbals 
I  h?ar  the  old  familiar  fall 
Of  water  down  the  rocky  wall. 


Where,  from  its  wintry  prison  breaking, 
In  dark  and  silence  hidden  long. 
The  brook  repeats  its  summer  song. 

One  instant  flashing  in  the  sunshine, 
Keen  as  a  sabre  from  its  sheath, 
Then  lost  again  the  ice  beneath. 

I  hear  the  rabbit  lightly  leaping, 

The  foolish  screaming  of  the  jay, 
The  chopper's  axe-stroke  far  away  ; 

The  clamor  of  some  neighboring  barn-yard, 
The  lazy  cock's  belated  crow, 
Or  cattle-tramp  in  crispy  snow. 

And,  as  in  some  enchanted  forest 

The  lost  knight  hears  his  comrades  sing, 
And,  near  at  hand,  their  bridles  ring, 

So  welcome  I  these  sounds  and  voices, 

These  airs  from  far-off  summer  blown, 
This  life  that  leaves  me  not  alone. 

For  the  white  glory  overawes  me ; 
The  crystal  terror  of  the  seer 
Of  Chebar's  vision  blinds  me  here. 

Rebuke  me  not,  O  sapphire  heaven  ! 
Thou  stainless  earth,  lay  not  on  me, 
Thy  keen  reproach  of  purity, 

If,  in  this  angiist  presence-chamber, 

I  sigh  for  summer's  leaf -green  gloom 
And  warm  airs  thick  with  odorous  bloom 


THE  SINGER.— CHICAGO. 


265 


Let  the  strange  f rost-work  sink  and  crumble, 
And  let  the  loosened  tree-boughs  swing, 
Till  all  their  bells  of  silver  ring. 

Shine  warmly  down,  thou  sun  of  noon-time, 
On  this  chill  pageant,  melt  and  move 
The  winter's  frozen  heart  with  love. 

And,  soft  and  low,  thou  wind  south-blowing, 
Breath?  through  a  veil  of  tenderest  haze, 
Thy  prophecy  of  summer  days. 

Come  with  thy  green  relief  of  promise, 
And  to  this  dead,  cold  splendor  bring 
The  living  jewels  of  the  spring  ! 


THE   SIXGER. 

YEARS  since  (but  name^  to  me  before), 
Two  sisters  sought  at  eve  my  door  ; 
Two  song-birds  wandering  from  their  nest, 
A  gray  old  farm-house  in  the  West. 

How  fresh  of  life  the  younger  one, 
Half  smiles,  half  tears,  like  rain  in  sun  ! 
Her  gravest  mood  could  scarce  displace 
The  dimples  of  her  nut-brown  face. 

Wit  sparkled  on  her  lips  not  less 
For  quick  and  tremulous  tenderness  ; 
And,  following  close  her  merriest  glance, 
Dreamed  through  her  eyes  the  heart's  romance. 

Timid  and  still,  the  elder  had 
Even  then  a  smile  too  swestly  sad  ; 
The  crown  of  pain  that  all  must  wear 
Too  early  pressed  her  midnight  hair. 

Yet  ere  the  summer  eve  grew  long, 
Her  modest  lips  were  sweet  with  song  ; 
A  memory  haunted  all  her  words 
Of  clover-fields  and  singing  birds. 

Her  dark,  dilating  eyes  expressed 

The  broad  horizons  of  the  west ; 

Her  speech  dropped  prairie  flowers  ;  the  gol 

Of  harvest  wheat  about  her  rolled. 

Fore-doomed  to  song  she  seemed  to  me  ; 

I  queried  not  with  destiny  ; 

I  knew  the  trial  and  the  need, 

Yet,  all  the  more,  I  said,  Gjd  speed  ! 

What  could  I  other  than  I  did  ? 
Could  I  a  singing-bird  forbid  ? 
Deny  the  wind-stirred  leaf  ?     Rebuke 
The  music  of  the  forest  brook  ? 

She  went  with  morning  f  ;om  my  door, 
But  left  me  richer  than  before ; 
Thenceforth  I  knew  her  voice  of  chear, 
The  welcome  of  her  partial  ear. 

Years  passed  :  through  all  the  land  her  name 
A  pleasant  household  word  became  : 
All  felt  behind  the  singer  stood 
A  sweet  and  gracious  womanhood. 

Her  life  was  earnest  work,  not  play  ; 
Har  tired  feet  climbed  a  weary  way  ; 
And  even  through  her  lighest  strain 
We  h?ard  an  undertone  of  pain. 

Unseen  of  her  her  fair  fame  grew, 
Th3  good  she  did  she  rarely  knew, 
Unguessed  of  her  in  life  the  love 
That  rained  its  tears  her  grave  above. 


When  last  I  saw  her,  full  of  peace, 
She  waited  for  her  great  release  ; 
And  that  old  friend  so  sage  and  bland, 
Our  later  Franklin,  held  her  hand. 

For  all  that  patriot  bosoms  stirs 
Had  moved  that  woman's  heart  of  hers, 
And  men  who  toiled  in  storm  and  sun 
Found  her  their  meet  companion. 

Our  converse,  from  her  suffering  bed 
To  healthful  themes  of  life  she  led  : 
The  out-door  world  of  bud  and  bloom 
And  light  and  sweetness  filled  her  room. 

Yet  evermore  an  underthought 
Of  loss  to  come  within  us  wrought, 
And  all  the  while  we  felt  the  strain 
Of  the  strong  will  that  conquered  pain. 

God  giveth  quietness  at  last ! 
The  common  way  that  all  have  passed 
She  went,  with  mortal  yearnings  fond, 
To  fuller  life  and  love  beyond. 

Fold  the  rapt  soul  in  your  embrace, 
My  dear  ones  !     Give  the  singer  place 
To  you,  to  her, — I  know  not  where, — 
I  lift  the  silence  of  a  prayer. 

For  only  thus  our  own  we  find  ; 
The  gone  before,  the  left  behind, 
All  mortal  voices  die  between  ; 
The  unheard  reaches  the  unseen. 

Again  the  blackbirds  sing  ;   the  streams 
Wake,  laughing,  from  their  winter  dreams, 
And  tremble  in  the  April  showers 
The  tassels  of  the  maple  flowers. 

But  not  for  her  has  spring  renewed 
The  sweet  surprises  of  the  wood  ; 
And  bird  and  flower  are  lost  to  her 
Who  was  their  best  interpreter  ! 

What  to  shut  eyes  has  God  revealed  ? 
What  hear  the  ears  that  death  has  sealed  ? 
What  undreamed  beauty  passing  show 
Requites  the  loss  of  all  we  know  ? 

O  silent  land,  to  which  we  move, 
Enough  if  th?re  alone  be  love, 
And  mortal  need  can  ne'er  outgrow 
What  it  is  waiting  to  bestow  ! 

O  white  soul !  from  that  far-off  shore 
Float  some  sweet  song  the  waters  o'er, 
Our  faith  confirm,  our  fears  dispel. 
With  the  old  voice  we  loved  so  well ! 


CHICAGO. 

MEN  said  at  vespers  :  "  All  is  well !  " 
In  one  wild  night  the  city  fell ; 
Fell  shrines  of  prayer  and  marts  of  gain 
Before  the  fiery  hurricane. 

On  threescore  spires  had  sunset  shone, 
Where  ghastly  sunrise  looked  on  none. 
Men  clasped  each  other's  hands,  and  said 
"  The  City  of  the  West  is  dead  !  " 

Brave  hearts  who  fought,  in  slow  retreat, 
The  fiends  of  fire  from  street  to  street. 
Turned,  powerless,  to  the  blinding  glare, 
The  dumb  defiance  of  despair. 


MY  BIRTHDAY. —THE  BREWING  OF  SOMA. 


A  sudden  impulse  thrilled  each  wire 

That  signalled  round  that  sea  of  fire ; 

Swift  words  of  cheer,  warm  heart-throbs  came  ; 

In  tears  of  pity  died  the  flame  ! 

From  East,  from  West,  from  South  and  North, 
The  messages  of  hope  shot  forth, 
And,  underneath  the  severing  wave, 
The  world,  full-handed,  reached  to  save. 

Fair  seemed  the  old  ;  but  fairer  still 
The  new,  the  dreary  void  shall  till 
With  dearer  homes  than  those  o'erthrown, 
For  love  shall  lay  each  corner-stone. 

Rise,  stricken  city  ! — from  thee  throw 
The  ashen  sackcloth  of  thy  wee ; 
And  build,  as  to  Amphion's  strain, 
To  songs  of  cheer  thy  walls  again  ! 

How  shrivelled  in  thy  hot  distress 
The  primal  sin  of  selfishness  ! 
How  instant  rose,  to  take  thy  part, 
The  angel  in  the  human  heart ! 

Ah  !  not  in  vain  the  flames  that  tossed 
Above  thy  dreadful  holocaust ; 
The  Christ  again  has  preached  through  thee 
The  Gospel  of  Humanity ! 

Then  lift  once  more  thy  towers  on  high, 
And  fret  with  spires  the  western  sky, 
To  tell  that  God  is  yet  with  us, 
And  love  is  still  miraculous  ! 


MY    BIRTHDAY. 

BENEATH  the  moonlight  and  the  snow 

Lies  dead  my  latest  year  ; 
The  winter  winds  are  wailing  low 

Its  dirges  in  my  ear. 

I  grieve  not  with  the  moaning  wind 

As  if  a  loss  befell ; 
Before  me,  even  as  behind, 

God  is,  and  all  is  well ! 

His  light  shines  on  me  from  above, 
His  low  voice  speaks  within, — 

The  patience  of  immortal  love 
Outwearyirg  mortal  sin. 

Not  mindless  of  the  growing  years 

Of  care  and  loss  and  pain, 
My  eyes  are  wet  with  thankful  tears 

For  blessings  which  remain. 

If  dim  the  gold  of  life  has  grown, 

I  will  not  count  it  dross, 
Nor  turn  from  treasures  still  my  own 

To  sigh  for  lack  and  loss. 

The  years  no  charm  from  Nature  take  : 

As  sweet  her  voices  call, 
As  beautif  ul  hsr  mornings  break, 

As  fair  her  evenings  fall. 

Love  watches  o'er  my  quiet  ways, 
Kind  voices  speak  my  name, 

And  lips  that  find  it  hard  to  praise 
Are  slow,  at  least,  to  blame. 

How  softly  ebb  the  tides  of  will ! 

How  fields,  once  lost  or  won, 
Now  lie  behind  me  green  and  still 

Beneath  a  level  sun  ! 


How  hushed  the  hiss  of  party  hate, 

The  clamor  of  the  throng  ! 
How  old,  harsh  voices  of  debate 

Flow  into  rhythmic  song  ! 

Methinks  the  spirit's  temper  grows 

Too  soft  in  this  still  air ; 
Somewhat  the  restful  heart  foregoes 

Of  needed  watch  and  prayer. 

The  bark  by  tempest  vainly  tossed 

May  founder  in  the  calm, 
And  he  who  braved  the  polar  frost 

Faint  by  the  isles  of  balm. 

Better  than  self-indulgent  years 

The  outflung  heart  of  youth, 
Than  pleasant  songs  in  idle  years 

The  tumult  of  the  truth. 

Rest  for  the  weary  hands  is  good, 
And  love  for  hearts  that  pine, 

But  let  the  manly  habitude 
Of  upright  souls  be  mine. 

Let  winds  that  blow  from  heaven  refresh, 

Dear  Lord,  the  languid  air  ; 
And  let  the  weakness  of  the  flesh 

Thy  strength  of  spirit  share. 

And,  if  the  eye  must  fail  of  light, 

The  ear  forget  to  hear, 
Make  clearer  still  the  spirit's  sight, 

More  fine  the  inward  ear ! 

Be  near  me  in  mine  hours  of  need 

To  soothe,  or  cheer,  or  warn, 
And  down  these  slopes  of  sunset  lead 

As  up  the  hills  of  morn  ! 


THE  BREWING  OF  SOMA. 

"  These  libations  mixed  with  milk  have  been  prepared 
for  Indra :  offer  Soma  to  the  drinker  of  boiua." — VA- 
SHISTA,  Trans.,  by  MAX  MUL.LEB. 

THE  fagots  blazed,  the  caldron's  smoke 

Up  through  the  green  wood  curled  ; 
"Bring  honey  from  the  hollow  oak, 
Bring  milky  sap,"  the  brewers  spoke, 
In  the  childhood  of  the  world. 

And  brewed  they  well  or  brewed  they  ill, 

The  priests  thrust  in  their  rods, 
First  tasted,  and  then  drank  their  fill, 
And  shouted,  with  one  voice  and  will, 

"  Behold  the  drink  of  gods !  " 

They  drank,  and  lo  !  in  heart  and  brain 

A  new,  glad  life  began  ; 
The  gray  of  hair  grew  young  again, 
The  sick  man  laughed  away  his  pain, 

The  cripple  leaped  and  ran. 

"  Drink,  mortals,  what  the  gods  have  sent, 

Forget  your  long  annoy.". 
So  sang  the  priests.     From  tent  to  tent 
The  Soma's  sacred  madness  went, 

A  storm  of  drunken  joy. 

Then  knew  each  rapt  inebriate 

A  winged  and  glorious  birth, 
Soared  upward,  with  strange  joy  elate, 
Beat,  with  dazed  head,  Varuna's  gate, 

And,  sobered,  sank  to  earth. 


A  WOMAN.— DISARMAMENT.— THE  ROBIN. 


267 


The  land  with  Soma's  praises  rang ; 

On  Gihon's  banks  of  shade 
Its  hymns  the  dusky  maidens  sang ; 
In  joy  of  life  or  mortal  pang 

All  men  to  Soma  prayed. 

The  morning  twilight  of  the  race 

Sends  down  these  matin  psalms  ; 
And  still  with  wondering  eyes  we  trace 
The  simple  prayers  to  Soma's  grace, 
That  Vedic  verse  embalms. 

As  in  that  child-world's  early  year, 

Each  after  age  has  striven 
Bv  music,  incense,  vigils  drear, 
And  trance,  to  bring  the  skies  more  near, 

Or  lift  men  up  to  heaven  ! — 

Some  fever  of  the  blood  and  brain, 


The  wild-haired  Bacchant's  yell, — 

The  desert's  hair-grown  hermit  sunk 

The  saner  brute  below  ; 
The  naked  Santon,  hashish-drunk, 
The  cloister  madness  of  the  monk, 

The  fakir's  torture-show  ! 

And  yet  the  past  comes  round  again 

And  new  dofch  old  fulfil ; 
In  sensual  transports  wild  as  vain 
We  brew  in  many  a  Christian  fane 

The  heathen  Soma  still ! 

Dear  Lord  and  Father  of  mankind, 

Forgive  our  foolish  wavs  ! 
Reclothe  us  in  our  rightful  mind, 
In  purer  lives  thy  service  find, 

In  deeper  reverence,  praise. 

In  simple  trust  like  theirs  who  heard 

Beside  the  Syrian  sea 
The  gracious  calling  of  the  Lord, 
Let  us,  like  them,  without  a  word, 

Rise  up  and  follow  thee. 

O  Sabbath  rest  by  Galilee ! 

O  calm  of  hills  above, 
Where  Jesus  knelt  to  share  with  thee 
The  silence  of  eternity 

Interpreted  by  love  ! 

With  that  deep  hush  subduing  all 
Our  words  and  works  that  drown 

The  tender  whisper  of  thy  call, 

As  noiseless  let  thy  blessing  fall 
As  fell  thy  manna  down. 

Drop  thy  still  dews  of  quietness, 

Till  all  our  strivings  cease  ; 
Take  from  our  souls  the  strain  and  stress, 
And  let  our  ordered  lives  confess 

The  beauty  of  thy  peace. 

Breathe  through  the  heats  of  our  desire 

Thy  coolness  and  thy  balm ; 
Let  sense  be  dumb,  let  flesh  retire ; 
Speak  through  the  earthquake,  wind,  and  fire, 

O  still,  small  voice  of  calm  ! 


A  WOMAN. 

O,  DWARFED  and  wronged,  and  stained  with  ill, 
Bohold  !  thou  art  a  woman  still ! 
And,  by  that  sacred  name  and  dear, 
I  bid  thy  better  self  appear. 


Still,  through  thy  foul  disguise,  I  see 
The  rudimental  purity, 
That,  spite  of  change  and  loss,  make 
Thy  birthright-claim  of  womanhood 
An  inward  loathing,  deep,  intense  ; 
A  shame  that  is  half  innocence. 
Cast  off  the  grave-clothes  of  thy  sin  ! 
Rise  from  the  dust  thou  liest  in, 
As  Mary  rose  at  Jesus'  word, 
Redeemed  and  white  before  the  Lord  ! 
Reclaim  thy  lost  soul !     In  His  name, 
Rise  up,  and  break  thy  bonds  of  shame. 
Art  weak?     He's  strong.     Art  fearful? 
The  world's  O'ercomer  :   "  Be  of  cheer  ! 
What  lip  shall  judge  when  He  approves  '. 
Who  dare  to  scorn  the  child  he  loves  ? 


good 


Hear 


DISARMAMENT. 

"PUT  up  the    sword!"     The  voice  of    Christ 

once  more 

Speaks,  in  the  pauses  of  the  cannon's  roar, 
O'er  fields  of  corn  by  fiery  sickles  reaped 
And  left  dry  ashes  ;  over  trenches  heaped 
With  nameless  dead ;  o'er  cities  starving  slow 
Under  a  rain  of  fire ;  through  wards  of  woe 
Down  which  a  groaning  diapason  runs 
From  tortured  brothers,  husbands,  lovers,  son 
Of  desolate  women  in  their  far-off  homes, 
Waiting  to  hear  the  step  that  never  comes  ! 
O  men  and  brothers !  let  that  voice  be  heard. 
War  fails,  try  peace  ;  put  up  the  useless  sword  ! 

Fear  not  the  end.     There  is  a  story  told 

In  Eastern  tents,  wb.3n  autumn  nights  grow  cold, 

And  round  the  fire  the  Mongol  shepherds  sit 

With  grave  responses  listening  unto  it : 

Once,  on  the  errands  of  his  mercy  bent, 

Buddha,  the  holy  and  benevolent, 

Met  a  fell  monster,  huge  and  fierce  of  look, 

Whose  awful  voice  the  hills  and  forests  shook. 

UO  son  of  peace  !  "  the  giant  cried,  "thy  fate 

Is  sealed  at  last,  and  love  shall  yield  to  hate." 

The  unarmed  Buddha  looking,  with  no  trace 

Of  fear  or  anger,  in  the  monster's  face, 

In  pity  said  :  "  Poor  fiend,  even  thee  I  love." 

Lo  !  as  he  spake  the  sky-tall  terror  sank 

To    hand-breadth    size;     the    huge    abhorrence 

shrank 

Into  the  form  and  fashion  of  a  dove  ; 
And  where  the  thunder  of  its  rage  was  heard, 
Circling  above  him  sweetly  sang  the  bird  : 
"Hate  hath  no  harm  for  love,"  so  ran  the  song; 
"And  peace  unweaponed  conquers  every  wrong  !  " 


THE  ROBIN. 

MY  old  Welch  neighbor  over  the  way 
Crept  slowly  out  in  the  sun  of  spring, 

Pushed  from  her  ears  the  locks  of  gray, 
And  listened  to  hear  the  robin  sing. 

Her  grandson,  playing  at  marbles,  stopped, 
And,  cruel  in  sport  as  boys  will  be, 

Tossed  a  stone  at  the  bird,  who  hopped 
From  bough  to  bough  in  the  apple-tree. 

"Nay!"  said  the  grandmother;  "have  you  not 
heard, 

My  poor,  bad  boy  !  of  the  fiery  pit, 
And  how,  drop  by  drop,  this  merciful  bird 

Carries  the  water  that  quenches  it  ? 


268 


THE  SISTERS.  -MARGUERITE. 


"  He  brings  cool  dew  in  h's  little  bill, 
And  lets  it  fall  on  the  souls  of  sin  : 

You  can  see  the  mark  on  his  red  breast  still 
Of  tires  that  scorch  as  he  drops  it  in. 

"My   poor  Bron  rhuddyn  !    my  breast-burned 
bird, 

Singing  so  sweetly  from  limb  to  limb, 
Very  dear  to  thexheart  of  Our  Lord 

Is  he  who  pities  the  lost  like  Him  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  I  said  to  the  beautiful  myth  ; 

u  Sing,  bird  of  God,  in  my  heart  as  well : 
Each  good  thought  is  a  drop  wherewith 

To  cool  and  lessen  the  fires  of  hell. 

"  Prayers  of  love  like  rain-drops  fall, 

Tears  of  pity  are  cooling  dew, 
And  dear  to  the  heart  of  Oar  Lord  are  all 

Who  suffer  like  Him  in  the  good  they  do  ! 


THE  SISTERS. 

ANNIE  and  Rhoda,  sisters  twain, 
Woke  in  the  night  to  the  sound  of  rain, 

The  rush  of  wind,  the  ramp  and  roar 
Of  great  waves  climbing  a  rocky  shore. 

Annie  rose  up  in  her  bed-gown  white, 
And  looked  out  into  the  storm  and  night. 

"  Hush,  and  hearken  !  "  she  cried  in  fear, 
"  Hearest  thou  nothing,  sister  dear  ?  " 

11 1  hear  the  sea,  and  the  plash  of  rain, 
And  roar  of  the  northeast  hurricane. 

"  Get  thee  back  to  the  bed  so  warm, 
No  good  comes  of  watching  a  storm. 

"  What  is  it  to  thee,  I  fain  would  know, 
That  waves  are  roaring  and  wild  winds  blow  ? 

"  No  lover  of  thine  's  afloat  to  miss, 
The  harbor-lights  on  a  night  like  this." 

"  But  I  heard  a  voice  cry  out  my  name, 
Up  from  the  sea  on  the  wind  it  came  ! 

"Twice  and  thrice  have  I  heard  it  call. 
And  the  voice  is  the  voice  of  Estwick  Hall !  '' 

On  her  pillow  the  sister  tossed  her  head. 
"  Hall  of  the  Heron  is  safe,"  she  said. 

"  In  the  tautest  schooner  that  ever  swam 
He  rides  at  anchor  in  Anisquam. 

11  And,  if  in  peril  from  swamping  sea 

Or  lee  shore  rocks,  would  he  call  on  thee  ?  " 

But  the  girl  heard  only  the  wind  and  tide, 
And  wringing  her  small  white  hands  she  cried  : 

"  O  sister  Rhoda,  there  's  something  wrong  ; 
I  hear  it  again,  so  loud  and  long. 

"  '  Annie  !  Annie  !  '  I  hear  it  call, 

And  the  voice  is  the  voice  of  Estwick  Hall !  " 

Up  sprang  the  elder,  with  eyes  aflame, 

' '  Thou  liest !     He  never  would  call  thy  name  ! 

"  If  he  did,  I  would  pray  the  wind  and  sea 
To  keep  him  forever  from  thee  and  me  !  " 


I  Then  out  of  the  sea  blew  a  dreadful  blast ; 

Like  the  cry  of  a  dying  man  it  passed. 
| 
i  The  young  girl  hushed  on  her  lips  a  groan, 

But  through  her  tears  a  strange  light  shone, — 

The  solemn  joy  of  her  heart's  release 
To  own  and  cherish  its  love  in  peace. 

I  "  Dearest  !  "  she  whispered,  under  breath, 
"Life  was  a  lie,  but  true  is  death. 

I  "  The  love  I  hid  from  myself  away 

j  Shall  crown  me  now  in  the  light  of  day. 

I  u  My  ears  shall  never  to  wooer  list, 
I  Never  by  lover  my  lips  be  kissed. 

"Sacred  to  thee  am  I  henceforth, 
Thou  in  heaven  and  I  on  earth  !  " 

She  came  and  stood  by  her  sister's  bed  : 
"  Hall  of  the  Heron  is  dead !  "  she  said. 

u  The  wind  and  the  waves  their  work  have  done, 
We  shall  see  him  no  more  beneath  the  sun. 

"  Little  will  reck  that  heart  of  thine, 
It  loved  him  not  with  a  love  like  mine. 

"  I,  for  his  sake,  were  he  but  here, 
Could  hem  and  'broider  thy  bridal  gear, 

' l  Though  hands  should  tremble  and  eyes  be  wet, 
And  stitch  for  stitch  in  my  heart  be  set. 

"  But  now  my  soul  with  his  soul  I  wed  ; 
Thine  the  living,  and  mine  the  dead  !  " 


MARGUERITE. 

MASSACHUSETTS   BAY,    1760. 

j  THE  robins  sang  in  the  orchard,  the  buds  into 

blossoms  grew ; 
I  Little  of  human  sorrow  the  buds  and  the  robins 

knew ! 

Sick,  in  an  alien  household,  the  poor  French  neu 
tral  lay; 

Into  her  lonesome  garret  fell  the  light  of  the 
April  day. 

Through    the   dusty  window,   curtained   by    the 

spider's  warp  and  woof, 
On  the  loose-laid  floor  of  hemlock,  on  oaken  ribs 

of  roof. 

The  bedquilt's  faded   patchwork,  the  teacups  on 

the  stand, 
The  wheel  with  flaxen  tangle,  as  it  dropped  from 

her  sick  hand ! 

What  to  her  was  the  song  of  the  robin,  or  warm 

morning  light, 
As  she  lay  in  the  trance  of  the  dying,  heedless  of 

sound  or  sight  ? 

Done  was  the  work  of  her  hands,  she  had  eaten 

her  bitter  bread  ; 
The  world  of  the  alien  people  lay  behind  her  dim 

and  dead. 


MARGUERITE.— KING  VOLMER  AND  ELSIE. 


269 


But  her  soul  went  back  to  its  child-time  ;  she    And  the  robins  sang  in  the  orchard,  where  buds 

saw  the  sun  o'erflow  to  blossoms  grew  ; 

With  gold  the  basin  of  Minas,  and  set  over  Gas-    Of  the  folded  hands  and  the  still  face  never  the 


perau  ; 

The  low,  bare  flats  at  ebb-tide,  the  rush  of  the 

sea  at  flood, 
Through  inlet  and  creek  and  river,  from  dike  to 

upland  wood ; 


robins  knew ! 


KING    VOLMER    AND    ELSIE. 


The  gulls  in  the  red  of  morning,  the  fish-hawk's 

rise  and  fall, 
The  drift  of  the  fog  in  moonshine,  over  the  dark       AFTER  THE  DANISH  OF  CHRISTIAN  WINTER. 

coast-wall. 


She  saw  the  face  of  her  mother,  she  heard  the 

song  she  sang  ; 
And  far  off,  faintly,  slowly,  the  bell  for  vespers 

rang! 

By  her  bed  the  hard-faced  mistress  sat,  smooth 
ing  the  wrinkled  sheet, 

Peering  into  the  face,  so  helpless,  and  feeling  the 
ice-cold  feet. 

With  a  vague  remorse  atoning  for  her  greed  and 

long  abuse, 
By  care  no  longer  heeded  and  pity  too  late  for 


WHERE,  over  heathen  doom -rings  and  gray  stones 

of  the  Horg, 
In  its  little  Christian  city  stands  the  church  of 

Vordingborg, 

In  merry  mood  King  Volmer  sat,  forgetful  of  his 

power, 
As  idle  as  the  Goose  of  Gold  that  brooded  on  his 

tower. 

Out  spake  the  King  to  Henrik,  his  young  and 

faithful  squire : 
v4  Dar'st  trust  thy  little  Elsie,  the  maid  of  thy 

desire?" 
"  Of  all  the  men  in  Denmark  she  loveth  only 

Up  the  stairs  of  the  garret  softly  the  son  of  the  |  As  tow  to  me  is  Elsie  as  thy  Lily  is  to  thee." 

mistress  stepped, 
Leaned  over  the  head-board,  covering  his  face    Loud  laughed  the  king ;  "  To-morrow  shall  br in » 

with  his  hands,  and  wept.  another  day,* 


Outspake  the  mother,  who  watched  him  sharply, 

with  brow  a-frown : 
u  What !    love  you  the  Papist,  the  beggar,  the 

charge  of  the  town  ?  " 

"  Be  she  Papist  or  beggar  who  lies  here,  I  know 
and  God  ' 


When  I  myself  will  test  her ;   she  will  not  say 

me  nay." 
Thereat  the  lords  and  gallants,  that  round  about 

him  stood, 
Wagged  all  their  heads  in  concert  and  smiled  as 

courtiers  should. 

The  gray  lark  sings  o'er  Vordingborg,  and  on  the 
I  love  her,  and  fain  would  go  with  her  wherever  .  ancient  town 

she  goes  !  :  From  the  tall  tower  cf  Valdemar  the  Golden 

.     ,.  Goose  looks  down  : 

O  mother  !  that  sweet  face  came  pleading,  for    The  yellOw  grain  is  waving  in  the  pleasant  wind 

love  so  athirst.  of  morn 

You  saw  but  the  town-charge  ;  I  knew  her  God's    The  wood  re8O'unds  with  cry  of  hounds  and  blare 
angel  at  first. "  of  hunter's  horn. 

Shaking  her  gray  head,  the  mistress  hushed  down  !  In  the  garden  of  her  father  little  Elsie  sits  and 

a  bitter  cry  ;  spins 

And  awed  by  the  silence  and  shadow  of  death    And   singin'g  with  the  early  birds,  her  daily  task 

drawing  nigh,  begins. 

Gay  tulips  bloom  and  sweet  mint  curls  around 
She  murmured  a  psalm  of  the  Bible  ;    but  closer  |  her  warden-bower 

the  young  girl  pressed,  But  she  is&sweeter  than  the  mint  and  fairer  than 


With  the  last  of  her  life  in  her  fingers,  the  cross 
to  her  breast. 


the  flower. 


u  She  is  joined  to  her  idols,  like  Ephraim ;  let 
her  alone  !  " 


!  About  her  form  her  kirtle  blue  clings  lovingly, 
"  My  son,   come  away,"  cried  the   mother,   her  and,  white 

voice  cruel  grown.  !  As  snow,  her  loose  sleeves  only  leave  her  small, 

round  wrists  in  sight ; 

Below  the  modest  petticoat  can  only  half  con 
ceal 
But  he  knelt  with  his  hand  on  her  forehead,  his  '  The  motion  of  the  lightest  foot  that  ever  turned 

lips  to  her  ear,  a  wheel. 

And  he  called  back  the  soul  that  was  passing : 

"  Marguerite,  do  you  hear?"  The  cat  sits  purring  at  her  side,  bees  hum  in 

sunshine  warm ; 
She  paused  on  the  threshold  of  Heaven ;  love,  '  But,   look !    she   starts,  she  lifts  her    face,    she 

pity,  surprise,  shades  it  with  her  arm. 

Wistful,  tender,  lit  up  for  an  instant  the  cloud  of    And,  hark !  a  train  of  horsemen,  with  sound  of 
her  eyes.  dog  and  horn, 

;  Come  leaping  o'er  the  ditches,  come  trampling 

With  his  heart  on  his  lips  he  kissed    her,  but  |  down  the  corn  ! 

never  her  cheek  grew  red, 
And  the  words  the  living  long  for  he  spake  in  the  j      *  A  common  saying  of  Valdemar;  hence  his  sobriquet 

ear  of  the  dead.  I  Alterday. 


270 


KING  VOLMER  AND  ELSIE. 


Merrily  rang  the  bridle-reins,  and  scarf  and  plume 

streamed  gay, 
As  fast  beside  her  father's  gate  the  riders  held 

thdr  way  ; 
»  And  one  was  brave  in  scarlet  cloak,  with  golden 

spur  on  heel, 
And,  as  he  checke J  his  foaming  steed,  the  maiden 

checked  her  wheel. 

4%  All  hail  among  thy  roses,  the  fairest  rose  to 

me ! 
For  weary  months  in  secret  my  heart  has  longed 

for  thee ! " 
What  noble  knight  was  this  ?     What  words  for 

modest  maiden's  ear? 
8'ie  dropped  a  lowly  courtesy  of  bashfulness  and 

fear. 

She  lifted  up  her  spinning-wheel ;  she  fain  would 

seek  the  door  , 
Trembling  in  every  limb,  her  cheek  with  blushes 

crimsoned  o'er. 
44  Nay,   fear  me  not,"  the  rider  said,    44I  offer 

heart  and  hand, 
Bear  witness  these  good  Danish    knights    who 

round  about  me  stand. 

44 1  grant  you  time  to  think  of  this,  to  answer  as 

you  may, 
For  to-morrow,  little  Elsie,  shall  bring  another 

day." 
He  spake  the  old  phrase  slyly  as,  glancing  round 

his  train, 
He  saw  his  merry  followers   seek  to  hide  their 

smiles  in  vain. 

44  The  snow  of  pearls  I'll  scatter  in  your  curls  of 

golden  hair, 
I  '11  line  with  furs  the  velvet  of  the  kirtle  that 

you  wear ; 
All  precious  gems  shall  twine  your  neck ;   and  in 

a  chariot  gay 
You  shall  ride,  my  little  Elsie,  behind  four  steeds 

of  gray. 

44  And  harps  shall  sound,  and  flutes  shall  play, 

and  brazen  lamps  shall  glow ; 
On  marble  floors  your  feet  shall  weave  the  dances 

to  and  fro. 
At  frosty  eventide  for  us  the  blazing  hearth  shall 

shine, 
While,  at  our  ease,   we  play   at  draughts,   and 

drink  the  blood -red  wine." 

Then  Elsie  raised  her  head  and  met  her  wooer 

face  to  face ; 
A  roguish  smile  shone  in  her  eye  and  on  her  lip 

found  place. 
Back  from  her  low  white  forehead  the  curls  of 


gold  she  threw, 
lifted 


And  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  his  steady  and  clear  and 
blue. 

44  I  am  a  lowly  peasant,  and  you  a  gallant  knight ; 
I  will  not  trust  a  love  that  soon  may  cool  and 

turn  to  slight. 
If  you  would  wed  me  henceforth  be  a  peasant, 

not  a  lord  ; 
I  bid  you  hang  upon  the  wall  your  tried  and  trusty 

sword." 

41  To  please  you,  Elsie,  I  will  lay  keen  Dynadel 

away, 
And  in  its  place  will  swing  the  scythe  and  mow 

your  father's  hay. " 
44  Nay,  but  your  gallant  scarlet  cloak  my  eyes 

can  never  bear ; 
A  Vadmal  coat,  so  plain  and  gray,  is  all  that  you 

must  wear." 


44  Well,  Vadmal  will  I  wear  for  you,"  the  rider 

gayly  spoke, 
44  And  on  the  Lord's  high  altar  I '11  lay  my  scarlet 

cloak." 
41  But  mark,"  she  said,    4'no  stately   horse  my 

peasant  love  must  ride, 
A  yoke  of  steers  before  the  plough  is  all  that  he 

must  guide." 

The  knight  looked  down  upon  his  steed :    4t  Well, 

let  him  wander  free  : 
No  other  man  must  ride  the  horse  that  has  been 

backed  by  me. 
Henceforth  I  '11  tread  the  furrow  and  to  my  oxen 

talk, 
If  only  little  Elsie  beside  my  plough  will  walk." 

44  You  must  take  from  out  your  cellar  cask  of 
wine  and  flask  and  can  ; 

The  homely  mead  1  brew  you  may  serve  a  peas 
ant-man." 

"  Most  willingly,  fair  Elsie,  I  '11  drink  that  mead 
of  thine, 

And  leave  my  minstrel's  thirsty  throat  to  drain 
my  generous  wine." 

44  Now  break  your  shield  asunder,  and  shatter 
sign  and  boss, 

Unmeet  for  peasant-wedded  arms,  your  knightly 
knee  across. 

And  pull  me  down  yor.r  castle  from  top  to  base 
ment  wall, 

And  let  your  plough  trace  furrows  in  the  ruins  of 
your  hall !  " 

Then  smiled  he  with  a  lofty  pride  ;  right  well  at 

last  he  knew 
The    maiden   of  the  spinning-wheel  was  to  her 

troth -plight  true. 
44  Ah,  roguish  little  Elsie  !  you  act  your  part  full 

well : 
You  know  that  I  imist  bear  my  shield  and  in  my 

castle  dwell ! 

44  The  lions  ramping  on   that  shield  between  the 

hearts  aflame 
Keep  watch  o'er  Denmark's  honor,  and  guard  her 

ancient  name. 
For  know  that  I  am  Volmer  ;  I  dwell  in  yonder 

towers, 
Who  ploughs  them  ploughs  up  Denmark,  this 

goodly  home  of  ours  ! 

44 1  tempt  no  more,  fair  Elsie  !  your  heart  I  know 

is  true ; 
Would  God  that  all  our  maidens  were  good  and 

pure  as  you  ! 
Well  have  you  pleased  your  monarch,   and  he 

shall  well  repay  ; 
God's  peace  !    Farewell !     To-morrow  will  bring 

another  day !  " 

He  lifted  up  his  bridle  hand,  he  spurred  his  good 

steed  then, 
And  like  a  whirl-blast  swept  away  with  all  his 

gallant  men . 
The  steel    hoofs  beat  the  rocky  path  ;  again  on 

winds  of  morn 
The  wood  resounds  with  cry  of  hounds  and  blare 

of  hunter's  horn. 

4 'Thou   true  and   ever    faithful!"  the  listening 

Henrik  cried ; 
And,  leaping  o'er   the  green  hedge,  he  stood  by 

Elsie's  side. 
None  saw  the  fond  embracing,  save,  shining  from 

afar, 
The  Golden  Goose  that  watched  them  from  the 

tower  of  Valdemar. 


THS  THREE  BELLS.— HAZEL  BLOSSOMS. 


271 


O  darling  girls  of  Denmark  !    of  all  ths  flowers 

that  throng 
Her  vales  of  spring  the  fairest,  I  sing  for  you  my 

song. 
No  praise  as  yours  so  bravely  rewards  th3  singer's 

skill; 
Thank  God  !  of    maids  like  Elsie  the    land  has 

plenty  still ! 


THE   THREE    BELLS. 

BENEATH  the  low-h  -ng  night  cloud 
That  raked  her  splintering  mast 

The  good  ship  settled  slowly, 
The  cruel  leak  gained  fast. 

Over  the  awful  ocean 

Her  signal  guns  pealed  out. 

Dear  God  !   was  that  thy  answer 
From  the  horror  round  about  ? 

A  voice  came  down  the  wild  wind, 
u  Ho  !  ship  ahoy  !  "   its  cry : 

' '  Our  stout  Three  Bells  of  Glasgow 
Shall  lay  till  daylight  by  !  " 

Hour  after  hour  crept  slowly, 
Yet  on  the  heaving  swells 

Tossed  up  and  down  the   ship-lights, 
Tho  lights  of  the  Three  Bells  i 


And  ship  to  ship  made  signals, 
Man  answered  back  to  man, 

While  oft,  to  cheer  and  hearten, 
The  Three  Bells  nearer  ran ;  , 

And  the  captain  from  her  taffrail 

Sent  down  his  hopeful  cry. 
"Take  heart !  Hold  on  !"  he  shouted, 

"The  Three  Bells  shall  lay  by  !  " 

All  night  across  the  waters 
The  tossing  lights  shone  clear  ; 

All  night  from  reeling  taffrail 
The  Three  Bells  sent  her  cheer. 

And  when  the  dreary  watches 
Of  storm  and  darkness  passed, 

Just  as  the  wreck  lurched  under, 
All  souls  were  saved  at  last. 


Sail  on,  Three  Bells,  forever, 
In  grateful  memory  sail ! 

Ring  on,  Three  Bells  of  rescue, 
Above  the  wave  and  gale  ! 

Type  of  the  Love  eternal, 
Repeat  the  Master's  cry. 

As  toss'ng  through  our  darkness 
The  lights  of  God  draw  nigh  ! 


HAZEL  BLOSSOMS, 


NOTE. 

I  HAVE  ventured,  in  compliance  with  the  desire  of  dear 
friends  of  my  beloved  sister  ELIZABETH  H.  WHITTIER, 
to  add  to  this  little  volume  the  few  poetical  pieces  which 
she  left  behind  her.  As  she  was  very  distrustful  of  her 
own  powers,  and  altogether  without  ambition  for  literary 
distinction,  she  shunned  everything  like  publicity,  and 
found  far  greater  happiness  in  generous  appreciation  of 
the  gifts  of  her  friends  than  in  the  cultivation  of  her 
own.  Yet  it  has  always  seemed  to  me,  that  had  her 
health,  sense  of  duty  and  fitness,  and  her  extreme  self- 
distrust  permitted,  she  might  have  taken  a  high  place 
among  lyrical  singers.  These  poems,  with  perhaps  two 
or  three  exceptions,  afford  but  slight  indications  of  the 
inward  life  of  the  writer,  who  had  an  almost  morbid 
dread  of  spiritual  and  intellectual  egotism,  or  of  her  ten 
derness  of  sympathy,  chastened  mirthfulness,  and  pleas 
ant  play  of  thought  and  fancy,  when  her  shy,  beautiful 
soul  opened  like  a  flower  in  the  warmth  of  social  com 
munion.  In  the  lines  on  Dr.  Kane  her  friends  will  see 
something  of  her  fine  individuality, — the  rare  mingling 
of  delicacy  and  intensity  of  feeling  which  made  her  dear 
to  them.  This  little  poem  reached  Cuba  while  the  great 
explorer  lay  on  his  death-bed,  and  we  are  told  that  he 
listened  with  grateful  tears  while  it  was  read  to  him  by 
his  moth  r 

I  am  tempted  to  say  more,  but  I  write  as  under  the  eye 
of  her  who.  while  with  us,  shrank  with  painful  depreca 
tion  from  the  praise  or  mention  of  performances  which 
seemed  so  far  below  her  ideal  of  excellence.  To  those 
who  best  knew  her,  the  beloved  circle  of  her  intimate 
friends,  I  dedicate  this  slight  memorial. 

J.  G.  W. 
AMESBURY,  Qth  mo.,  1874. 


THE  summer  warmth  has  left  the  sky, 
The  summer  songs  have  died  away  ; 
And,  withered,  in  the  footpaths  lie 
The  fallen  leaves,  but  yesterday 
With  ruby  and  with  topaz  gay. 

The  grass  is  browning  on  the  hills ; 
No  pale,  belated  flowers  recall 
The  astral  fringes  of  the  rills, 
And  drearily  the  dead  vines  fall, 
Frost-blackened,  from  the  roadside  wall. 

Yet,  through  the  gray  and  sombre  wood, 
Against  the  dusk  of  fir  and  pine, 
Last  of  their  floral  sisterhood, 
The  hazel's  yellow  blossoms  shine, 
The  tawny  gold  of  Afric's  mine ! 

Small  beauty  hath  my  unsung  flower, 
For  spring  to  own  or 'summer  hail ; 
But,  in  the  season's  saddest  hour, 
To  skies  that  weep  and  winds  that  wail 
Its  glad  surprisals  never  fail. 

O  days  grown  cold  !     O  life  grown  old ! 
No  rose  of  June  may  bloom  again ; 
But,  like  the  hazel's  twisted  gold. 
Through  earlv  frost  and  latter  rain 
Shall  hints  of  summer-time  remain. 


272 


SUMNER. 


;  And  withered  in  the  footpaths  lie 
The  fallen  leave?,  but  yesterday 
With  ruby  and  with  topaz  green." 


And  as  within  the  hazel's  bough 

A  gift  of  mystic  virtue  dwells, 

That  points  to  golden  ores  below, 

And  in  dry  desert  places  tells 

Where  flow  unseen  the  cool,  sweet  wells, 

So,  in  the  wise  Diviner's  hand, 
Be  mine  the  hazel's  grateful  part 
To  feel,  beneath  a  thirsty  land, 
The  living  waters  thrill  and  start, 
The  beating  of  the  rivulet's  heart ! 

Sufficeth  me  the  gift  to  light 
With  latest  bloom  the  dark,  cold  days  ; 
To  call  some  hidden  spring  to  sight 
That,  in  these  dry  and  dusty  ways, 
Shall  sing  its  pleasant  song  of  praise. 

O  Love  !  the  hazel-wand  may  fail, 
But  thou  canst  lend  the  surer  spell, 
That,  passing  over  Baca's  vale, 
Repeats  the  old-time  miracle, 
And  makes  the  desert-land  a  w^ll. 


SUMNER. 

"I  am  not  one  who  has  disgraced  beauty  of  sentiment 
by  deformity  of  conduct,  or  the  maxims  of  a  freeman  by 
the  actions  of  a  slave  :  but,  by  the  grace  of  God,  I  liave 
kept  my  life  unsullied." — MILTON'S  Defence  of  the  Peo 
ple  of  England. 

O  MOTHEU  STATE  ! — the  winds  of  March 
Blew  chill  o'er  Auburn's  Field  of  God, 

Where,  slow,  beneath  a  leaden  arch 
Of  sky,  thy  mourning  children  trod. 

And  now,  with  all  thy  woods  in  leaf, 
Thy  fields  in  flower,  beside  thy  dead 

Thou  sittest,  in  thy  robes  of  grW, 
A  Rachel  yet  uncomforted  ! 


And  once  again  the  organ  swells, 

Once  more  the  flag  is  half-way  hung, 

And  yet  again  the  mournful  bells 
In  all  thy  steeple-towers  are  rung. 

And  I,  obedient  to  thy  will, 
Have  come  a  simple  wreath  to  lay, 

Superfluous,  on  a  grave  that  still 
Is  sweet  with  all  the  flowers  of  May. 

I  take,  with  awe,  the  task  assigned  ; 

It  may  be  that  my  friend  might  miss, 
In  his  new  sphere  of  heart  and  mind, 

Some  token  from  my  hand  in  this. 

By  many  a  tender  memory  moved, 
Along  the  past  my  thought  I  send  ; 

The  record  of  the  cause  he  loved 
Is  the  best  record  of  its  friend. 

No  trumpet  sounded  in  his  ear, 

He  saw  not  Sinai's  cloud  and  flame, 

But  never  yet  to  Hebrew  seer 
A  clearer  voice  of  duty  came. 

God  said  :  "  Break  thou  these  yokes  ;  undo 
These  heavy  burdens.     I  ordain 

A  work  to  last  thy  whole  life  through, 
A  ministry  of  strife  and  pain. 

"Forego  thy  dreams  of  lettered  ease, 
Put  thou  the  scholar's  promise  by, 

The  rights  of  man  are  more  than  these." 
He  heard,  and  answered :  u  Here  am  I ! " 

He  set  his  face  against  the  blast, 
His  feet  against  the  flinty  phard, 

Till  the  hard  service  grew,  at  last, 
Its  own  exceeding  great  reward. 

Lifted  like  Saul's  above  the  crowd, 
Upon  his  kingly  forehead  fell 


SUMNER. 


278 


The  first,  sharp  bolt  of  Slavery's  cloud, 
Launched  at  the  truth  he  urged  so  well. 

Ah  !  never  yet,  at  rack  or  stake, 

Was  sorer  loss  made  Freedom's  gain, 

Than  his,  who  suffered  for  her  sake 
The  beak-torn  Titan's  lingering  pain  ! 

The  fixed  star  of  his  faith,  through  all 
Loss,  doubt,  and  peril,  shone  the  same  ; 

As  through  a  night  of  storm,  some  tall, 
Strong  lighthouse  lifts  its  steady  flame. 

Beyond  the  dust  and  smoke  he  saw 

The  sheaves  of  freedom's  large  increase, 

The  holy  fanes  of  equal  law, 
The  New  Jerusalem  of  peace. 

The  weak  might  fear,  th )  worldling  mock, 
The  faint  and  blind  of  heart  regret ; 

All  knew  at  last  th'  eternal  rock 
On  which  his  forward  feet  were  set. 

The  subtlest  scheme  of  compromise 

Was  folly  to  his  purpose  bold ; 
The  strongest  mesh  of  party  lies 

Weak  to  the  simplest  truth  he  told. 

One  language  held  his  heart  and  lip, 
Straight  onward  to  his  goal  he  trod, 

And  proved  the  highest  statesmanship 
Obedience  to  the  voice  of  God. 

No  wail  was  in  his  voice, — none  heard, 

When  treason's  storm-cloud  blackest  grew, 

The  weakness  of  a  doubtful  word  ; 
His  duty,  and  the  end,  he  knew. 

The  first  to  smite,  the  first  to  spare  ; 

When  once  the  hostile  ensigns  fell, 
He  stretched  out  hands  of  generous  care 

To  lift  the  foe  he  fought  so  well. 

For  there  was  nothing  base  or  small 
Or  craven  in  his  soul's  broad  plan  ; 

Forgiving  all  things  personal, 
He  hated  only  wrong  to  man. 

The  old  traditions  of  his  State, 

The  memories  of  her  great  and  good, 

Took  from  his  life  a  fresher  date, 
And  in  himself  embodied  stood. 

How  felt  the  greed  of  gold  and  place, 

The  venal  crew  that  schemed  and  planned, 

The  fine  scorn  of  that  haughty  face. 
The  spurning  of  that  bribeless  hand  ! 

If  than  Rome's  tribunes  statelier 

He  wore  his  senatorial  robe, 
His  lofty  port  was  all  for  her, 

The  one  dear  spot  on  all  the  globe. 

If  to  the  master's  plea  he  gave 
The  vast  contempt  his  manhood  felt, 

He  saw  a  brother  in  the  slave, — 
With  man  as  equal  man  he  dealt. 

Proud  was  he  ?  If  his  presence  kept 
Its  grandeur  wheresoe'er  he  trod, 

As  if  from  Plutarch's  gallery  stepped 
The  hero  and  the  demi-god, 

None  failed,  at  least,  to  reach  his  ear, 
Nor  want  nor  woe  appealed  in  vain ; 

The  homesick  soldier  knew  his  cheer, 
And  blessed  him  from  his  ward  of  pain. 

18 


Safely  his  dearest  friends  may  own 
The  slight  defects  he  never  hid, 

The  surface-blemish  in  the  stone 
Of  the  tall,  stately  pyramid. 

S -iflS.ee  it  that  he  never  brought 
His  conscience  to  the  public  mart ; 

But  lived  himself  the  truth  he  taught, 
White-souled,  clean-handed,  pure  of  heart. 

What  if  he  felt  the  natural  pride 

Of  power  in  noble  use,  too  true 
With  thin  humilities  to  hide 

The  work  he  did,  the  lore  he  knew  ? 

Was  he  not  just  ?    Was  any  wronged 

By  that  assured  self-estimate  ? 
He  took  but  what  to  him  belonged, 

Unenvious  of  another's  state. 

Well  might  he  heed  the  words  he  spake, 
And  scan  with  care  the  written  page 

Through  which  he  still  shall  warm  and  wake 
The  hearts  of  men  from  age  to  age. 

Ah  !  who  shall  blame  him  now  because 
He  solaced  thus  his  hours  of  pain  ! 

Should  not  the  o'erworn  thresher  pause, 
And  hold  to  light  his  golden  grain  ? 

No  sense  of  humor  dropped  its  oil 
On  the  hard  ways  his  purpose  went ; 

Small  play  of  fancy  lightened  toil ; 
He  spake  alone  the  thing  he  meant. 

He  loved  his  books,  the  Art  that  hints 
A  beauty  veiled  behind  its  own, 

The  graver's  line,  the  pencil's  tints, 
The  chisel's  shape  evoked  from  stone. 

He  cherished,  void  of  selfish  ends, 
The  social  courtesies  that  bless 

And  sweeten  life,  and  loved  his  friends 
With  most  unworldly  tenderness. 

But  still  his  tired  eyes  rarely  learned 
The  glad  relief  by  Nature  brought ; 

Her  mountain  ranges  never  turned 
His  current  of  persistent  thought. 

The  sea  rolled  chorus  to  his  speech 

Three-banked  like  Latium's  tall  trireme, 

With  laboring  oars ;  the  grove  and  beach 
Were  Forum  and  the  Academe. 

The  sensuous  joy  from  all  things  fair 
His  strenuous  bent  of  soul  repressed, 

And  left  from  youth  to  silvered  hair 
Few  hours  for  pleasure,  none  for  rest. 

For  all  his  life  was  poor  without, 
O  Nature,  make  the  last  amends  ! 

Train  all  thy  flowers  his  grave  about, 
And  make  thy  singing-birds  his  friends  ! 

Revive  again,  thou  summer  rain, 

The  broken  turf  upon  his  bed  ! 
Breathe,  summer  wind,  thy  tenderest  strain 

Of  low,  sweet  music  overhead  ! 

With  calm  and  beauty  symbolize 
The  peace  which  follows  long  annoy, 

And  lend  our  earth-bent,  mourning  eyes 
Some  hint  of  his  diviner  joy. 

For  safe  with  right  and  truth  he  is, 
As  God  lives  he  must  live  alway  ; 

There  is  no  end  for  souls  like  his, 
No  night  for  children  of  the  day  ! 


274 


THE  PRAYER  OF  AGASSIZ. 


Nor  cant  nor  poor  solicitudes 

Made  weak  his  life's  great  argument ; 

Small  leisure  his  for  frames  and  moods 
Who  followed  Duty  where  she  went. 

The  broad,  fair  fields  of  God  he  saw 
Beyond  the  bigot's  narrow  bound  ; 

The  truths  he  moulded  into  law 
In  Christ's  beatitudes  he  found. 

His  State-craft  was  the  Golden  Rule, 
His  right  of  vote  a  sacred  trust; 

Clear,  over  threat  and  ridicule, 
All  heard  his  challenge  :  "  Is  it  just  ?  " 

And  when  the  hour  supreme  had  come, 
Not  for  himself  a  thought  he  gave  ; 

In  that  last  pang  of  martyrdom, 
His  care  was  for  the  half -freed  slave. 

Not  vainly  dusky  hands  upbore, 

In  prayer,  the  passing  soul  to  heaven 

Whose  mercy  to  His  suffering  poor 
Was  service  to  the  Master  given. 

Leng  shall  the  good  State's  annals  tell, 
Her  children's  children  long  be  taught, 

How,  praised  or  blamed,  he  guarded  well 
The  trust  he  neither  shunned  nor  sought. 

If  for  one  moment  turned  thy  face, 
O  Mother,  from  thy  son,  not  long 

He  waited  calmly  in  his  place 

The  sure  remorse  which  follows  wrong. 

Forgiven  be  the  State  he  loved 

The  one  brief  lapse,  the  single  blot ; 

Forgotten  be  the  stain  removed, 
Her  righted  record  shows  it  not ! 

The  lifted  sword  above  her  shield 

With  jealous  care  shall  guard  his  fame  ; 

The  pine-tree  on  her  ancient  field 
To  all  the  winds  shall  speak  his  name. 

The  marble  image  of  her  son 

Her  loving  hands  shall  yearly  crown, 

And  from  her  pictured  Pantheon 
His  grand,  majestic  face  look  down. 

O  State,  so  passing  rich  before, 

Who  now  shall  doubt  thy  highest  claim  ? 
The  world  that  counts  thy  jewels  o'er 

Shall  longest  pause  at  SUMNER'S  name  ! 


THE  PRAYER  OF  AGASSIZ. 

ON  the  isle  of  Penikese, 

Ringed  about  by  sapphire  seas, 

Fanned  by  breezes  salt  and  cool, 

Stood  the  Master  with  his  school. 

Over  sails  that  not  in  vain 

Wooed  the  west-wind's  steady  strain, 

Line  of  coast  that  low  and  far 

Stretched  its  undulating  bar, 

Wings  aslant  along  the  rim 

Of  the  waves  they  stooped  to  skim, 

Rock  and  isle  and  glistening  bay, 

Fell  the  beautiful  white  day. 

Said  the  Master  to  the  youth  : 

"  We  have  come  in  search  of  truth, 

Trying  with  uncertain  key 

Door  by  door  of  mystery  ; 

We  are  reaching,  through  His  laws, 

To  the  garment-hem  of  Cause, 


Him,  the  endless,  unbegun, 

The  Unnamable,  the  One 

Light  of  all  our  light  the  Source, 

Life  of  life,  and  Force  of  force. 

As  with  fingers  of  the  blind, 

We  are  groping  here  to  find 

What  the  hieroglyphics  mean 

Of  the  Unseen  in  the  seen, 

What  the  Thought  which  underlies 

Nature's  masking  and  disguise, 

What  it  is  that  hides  beneath 

Blight  and  bloom  and  birth  and  death. 

By  past  efforts  unavailing, 

Doubt  and  error,  loss  and  failing, 

Of  our  weakness  made  aware, 

On  the  threshold  of  our  task 

Let  us  light  and  guidance  ask, 

Let  us  pause  in  silent  prayer  !  " 

Then  the  Master  in  his  place 
Bowed  his  head  a  little  space, 
And  the  leaves  by  soft  airs  stirred, 
Lapse  of  wave  and  cry  of  bird 
Left  the  solemn  hush  unbroken 
Of  that  wordless  prayer  unspoken, 
While  its  wish,  on  earth  unsaid, 
Rose  to  heaven  interpreted. 
As,  in  life's  best  hours,  we  hear 
By  the  spirit's  finer  ear 
His  low  voice  within  us,  thus 
The  All-Father  heareth  us  ; 
And  his  holy  ear  we  pain 
With  our  noisy  words  and  vain. 
Not  for  Him  our  violence 
Storming  at  the  gates  of  sense, 
His  the  primal  language,  his 
The  eternal  silences ! 

Even  the  careless  heart  was  moved, 
And  the  doubting  gave  assent, 
With  a  gesture  reverent, 
To  the  Master  well-beloved. 
As  thin  mists  are  glorified 
By  the  light  they  cannot  hide, 
All  who  gazed  upon  him  saw, 
Through  its  veil  of  tender  awe, 
How  his  face  was  still  uplit 
By  the  old  sweet  look  of  it, 
Hopeful,  trustful,  full  of  cheer, 
And  the  love  that  casts  out  fear. 
Who  the  secret  may  declare 
Of  that  brief,  unuttered  prayer  ? 
Did  the  shade  before  him  come 
Of  th'  inevitable  doom, 
Of  the  end  of  earth  so  near, 
And  Eternity's  new  year  ? 

In  the  lap  of  sheltering  seas 
Rests  the  isle  of  Penikese  ; 
But  the  lord  of  the  domain 
Comes  not  to  his  own  again  : 
Where  the  eyes  that  follow  fail, 
On  a  vaster  sea  his  sail 
Drifts  beyond  our  beck  and  hail. 
Other  lips  within  its  bound 
Shall  the  laws  of  life  expound  ; 
Other  eyes  from  rock  and  shell 
Read  the  world's  old  riddles  well : 
But  when  breezes  light  and  bland 
Blow  from  Summer's  blossomed  land, 
When  the  air  is  glad  with  wings, 
And  the  blithe  song-sparrow  sings, 
Many  an  eye  with  his  still  face 
Shall  the  living  ones  displace, 
Many  an  ear  the  word  shall  seek 
He  alone  could  fitly  speak. 
And  one  name  forevermore 
Shall  be  uttered  o'er  and  o'er 
By  the  waves  that  kiss  the  shore, 


THE  FRIEND'S  BURIAL.— JOHN  UNDERBILL. 


275 


By  the  curlew's  whistle  sent 
Down  the  cool,  sea-scented  air  ; 
In  all  voices  known  to  her, 
Nature  owns  her  worshipper, 
Half  in  triumph,  half  lament. 
Thither  Love  shall  tearful  turn, 
Friendship  pause  uncovered  there, 
And  the  wisest  reverence  learn 
From  the  Master's  silent  prayer. 


THE  FRIEND'S  BURIAL. 

MY  thoughts  are  all  in  yonder  town, 
Where,  wept  by  many  tears, 

To-day  my  mother's  friend  lays  down 
The  burden  of  her  years. 

True  as  in  life,  no  poor  disguise 

Of  death  with  her  is  seen, 
And  on  her  simple  casket  lies 

No  wreath  of  bloom  and  green. 

O,  not  for  her  the  florist's  art, 

The  mocking  weeds  of  woe, 
Dear  memories  in  each  mourner's  heart 

Like  heaven's  white  lilies  blow. 

And  all  about  the  sof  bening  air 
Of  new-born  sweetness  tells, 

And  the  ungathered  May-flowers  wear 
The  tints  of  ocean  shells. 

The  old,  assuring  miracle 

Is  fresh  as  heretofore  ; 
And  earth  takes  up  its  parable 

Of  life  from  death  once  more. 

Here  organ-swell  and  church-bell  toll 
Methinks  but  discord  were, — 

The  prayerful  silence  of  the  soul 
Is  best  befitting  her. 

No  sound  should  break  the  quietude 

Alike  of  earth  and  sky  ; — 
O  wandering  wind  in  Ssabrook  wood, 

Breathe  but  a  half -heard  sigh  ! 

Sing  softly,  spring-bird,  for  her  sake  ; 

And  thou  not  distant  sea, 
Lapse  lightly  as  if  Jesus  spake, 

And  thou  wert  Galilee  ! 

For  all  her  quiet  life  flowed  on 
As  meadow  streamlet?  flow, 

Where  fresher  green  reveals  alone 
The  noiseless  ways  they  go. 

From  her  loved  place  of  prayer  I  see 
The  plain-robed  mourners  pass, 

With  slow  feet  treading  reverently 
The  graveyard's  springing  grass. 

Make  room,  O  mourning  ones,  for  me, 
Where,  like  the  friends  of  Paul, 

That  you  no  more  her  face  shall  see 
You  sorrow  most  of  all. 

Her  path  shall  brighten  more  and  more 

Unto  the  perfect  day  ; 
She  cannot  fail  of  peace  who  bore 

Such  peace  with  her  away. 

O  sweet,  calm  face  that  seemed  to  wear 

The  look  of  sins  forgiven  ! 
O  voice  of  prayer  that  seemed  to  bear 

Our  own  needs  up  to  heaven  ! 


How  reverent  in  our  midst  she  stood, 

Or  knelt  in  grateful  praise  ! 
What  grace  of  Christian  womanhood 

Was  in  her  household  ways  ! 

For  still  her  holy  living  meant 

No  duty  left  undone  ; 
The  heavenly  and  the  human  blent 

Their  kindred  loves  in  one. 

And  if  her  life  small  leisure  found 

For  feasting  ear  and  eye, 
And  Pleasure,  on  her  daily  round, 

She  passed  unpausing  by, 

Yet  with  her  went  a  secret  sense 

Of  all  things  sweet  and  fair, 
And  Beauty's  gracious  providence 

Refreshed  her  unaware. 

She  kept  her  line  of  rectitude 
With  love's  unconscious  ease  ; 

Her  kindly  instincts  understood 
All  gentle  courtesies. 

An  inborn  charm  of  graciousness 
Made  sweet  her  smile  and  tone, 

And  glorified  her  farm-wife  dress 
With  beauty  not  its  own. 

The  dear  Lord's  best  interpreters 

Are  humble  human  souls  ; 
The  Gospel  of  a  life  like  hers 

Is  more  than  books  or  scrolls. 

From  scheme  and  creed  the  light  goes  out, 

The  saintly  fact  survives  ; 
The  blessed  Master  none  can  doubt 

Revealed  in  holy  lives. 


JOHN  UNDERBILL. 

A  SCORE  of  years  had  come  and  gone 
Since  the  Pilgrims  landed  on  Plymouth  stone, 
When  Captain  Underbill,  bearing  scars 
From  Indian  ambush  and  Flemish  wars, 
Left  three-hilled  Boston  and  wandered  down, 
East  by  north,  to  Cocheco  town. 

With  Vane  the  younger,  in  counsel  sweet 
He  had  sat  at  Anna  Hutchinson's  feet, 
And,  when  the  bolt  of  banishment  fell 
On  the  head  of  his  saintly  oracle, 
He  had  shared  her  ill  as  her  good  report, 
And  braved  the  wrath  of  the  General  Court. 

He  shook  from  his  feet  as  he  rode  away 

The  dust  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay. 

The  world  might  bless  and  the  world  might  ban, 

What  did  it  matter  the  perfect  man, 

To  whom  the  freedom  of  earth  was  given, 

Proof  against  sin,  and  sure  of  heaven  ? 

He  cheered  his  heart  as  he  rode  along 
With  screed  of  Scripture  and  holy  song, 
Or  thought  how  he  rode  with  his  linces  free 
By  the  Lower  Rhine  and  the  Zuyder-Zee, 
Till  his  wood-path  grew  to  a  trodden  road, 
And  Hilton  Point  in  the  distance  showed. 

He  saw  the  church  with  the  block-house  nigh, 
The  two  fair  rivers,  the  flakes  thereby, 
And,  tacking  to  windward,  low  and  crank, 
The  little  shallop  from  Strawberry  Bank  ; 
And  he  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  looked  abroad 
Over  land  and  water,  and  praised  the  Lord. 


276 


IN  QUEST. 


Goodly  and  stately  and  grave  to  see, 

Into  the  clearing's  space  rode  he, 

With  the  sun  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword  in  sheath, 

And  his  silver  buckles  and  spurs  beneath, 

And  the  settlers  welcomed  him,  one  and  all, 

Prom  swift  Quampeagan  to  Gonic  Pall. 

And  he  said  to  the  elders :  "  Lo,  I  come 

As  the  way  seemed  open  to  seek  a  home. 

Somewhat  the  Lord  hath  wrought  by  my  hands 

In  the  Narragansett  and  Netherlands, 

And  if  here  ye  have  work  for  a  Christian  man, 

I  will  tarry,  and  serve  ye  as  best  I  can. 

"  I  boast  not  of  gifts,  but  fain  would  own 
The  wonderful  favor  God  hath  shown, 
The  special  mercy  vouchsafed  one  day 
On  the  shore  of  Narragansett  Bay, 
As  I  sat,  with  my  pipe,  from  the  camp  aside, 
And  mused  like  Isaac  at  eventide. 

u  A  sudden  sweetness  of  peace  I  found, 
A  garment  of  gladness  wrapped  me  round  ; 
I  felt  from  the  law  of  works  released, 
The  strife  of  the  flesh  and  spirit  ceased, 
My  faith  to  a  full  assurance  grew, 
And  all  I  had  hoped  for  myself  I  knew. 

"  Now,  as  God  appointeth,  I  keep  my  way, 
I  shal^  not  stumble,  I  shall  not  stray ; 
He  hath  taken  away  my  fig-leaf  dress, 
1  wear  the  robe  of  his  righteousness  ; 
And  the  shafts  of  Satan  no  more  avail 
Than  Pequot  arrows  on  Christian  mail." 

41  Tarry  with  us,"  the  settlers  cried, 
*4  Thou  man  of  God,  as  our  ruler  and  guide." 
And  Captain  Underhill  bowed  his  head. 
"  The  will  of  the  Lord  be  done  !  "  he  said. 
And  the  morrow  beheld  him  sitting  down 
In  the  ruler's  seat  in  Cocheco  town. 

And  he  judged  therein  as  a  just  man  should ; 
His  words  were  wise  and  his  rule  was  good  ; 
He  coveted  not  his  neighbor's  land, 
From  the  holding  of  bribe  she  shook  his  hand 
And  through  the  camps  of  the  heathen  ran 
A  wholesome  fear  of  the  valiant  man. 

But  the  heart  is  deceitful,  the  good  Book  saith, 
And  life  hath  ever  a  savor  of  death. 
Through  hymns  of  triumph  the  tempter  calls, 
And  whoso  thinketh  he  standeth  falls. 
Alas  !  ere  their  round  the  seasons  ran, 
There  was  grief  in  the  soul  of  the  saintly  man. 

The  tempter's  arrows  that  rarely  fail 
Had  found  the  joints  of  his  spiritual  mail ; 
And  men  took  note  of  his  gloomy  air, 
The  shame  in  his  eye,  the  halt  in  his  prayer, 
The  signs  of  a  battle  lost  within, 
The  pain  of  a  soul  in  the  coils  of  sin. 

Then  a  whisper  of  scandal  linked  his  name 
With  broken  vows  and  a  life  of  blame  ; 
And  the  people  looked  askance  on  him 
As  he  walked  among  them  sullen  and  grim, 
111  at  ease,  and  bitter  of  word, 
And  prompt  of  quarrel  with  hand  or  sword. 

None  knew  how,  with  prayer  and  fasting  still, 
He  strove  in  the  bonds  of  his  evil  will ; 
But  he  shook  himself  like  Samson  at  length, 
And  girded  anew  his  loins  of  strength, 
And  bade  the  crier  go  up  and  down 
And  call  together  the  wondering  town. 

Jeer  and  murmur  and  shaking  of  head 
Ceased  as  he  rose  in  his  place  and  said  : 


u  Men,  brethren,  and  fathers,  well  ye  know 
How  I  came  among  you  a  year  ago, 
Strong  in  the  faith  that  my  soul  was  freed 
From  sin  of  feeling,  or  thought,  or  dead. 

"  I  have  sinned,  I  own  it  with  grief  and  shame, 

But  not  with  a  lie  on  my  lips  I  came. 

In  my  blindness  I  verily  thought  my  hear 

Swept  and  garnished  in  every  part. 

He  chargetn  His  angels  with  folly  ;  He  sees 

The  heavens  unclean.     Was  I  more  than  these  ? 

"  I  urge  no  plea.     At  your  feet  I  lay 
The  trust  you  gave  me,  and  go  my  way. 
Hate  me  or  pity  me,  as  you  will, 
The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on  sinners  still ; 
And  I,  who  am  chiefest,  say  to  all, 
Watch  and  pray,  lest  ye  also  fall." 

No  voice  made  answer  :  a  sob  so  low 

That  only  his  quickened  ear  could  know 

Smote  his  heart  with  a  bitter  pain, 

As  into  the  forest  he  rode  again, 

And  the  veil  of  its  oaken  leaves  shut  down 

On  his  latest  glimpse  of  Cocheco  town. 

Crystal  clear  on  the  man  of  sin 
The  streams  flashed  up,  and  the  sky  shone  in  ; 
On  his  cheek  ot  fever  the  cool  wind  blew, 
The  leaves  dropped  on  him  their  tears  of  dew, 
And  angels  of  God,  in  the  pure  sweet  guise 
Of  flowers,  looked  on  him  with  sad  surprise. 

Was  his  ear  at  fault  that  brook  and  breeze 
Sang  in  their  saddest  of  minor  keys  ? 
What  was  it  the  mournful  wood-thrush  said  ? 
What  whispered  the  pine-trees  overhead  ? 
Did  he  hear  the  Voice  on  his  lonely  way 
That  Adam  heard  in  the  cool  of  day  ? 

Into  the  desert  alone  rode  he, 

Alone  with  the  Infinite  Purity ; 

And,  bowing  his  soul  to  its  tender  rebuke, 

As  Peter  did  to  the  Master's  look, 

He  measured  his  path  with  prayers  of  pain 

For  peace  with  God  and  nature  again. 

And  in  after  years  to  Cocheco  came 

The  bruit  of  a  once  familiar  name  ; 

How  among  the  Dutch  of  New  Netherlands, 

From  wild  Danskamer  to  Haarlem  sands, 

A  penitent  soldier  preached  the  WTord, 

And  smote  the  heathen  with  Gideon's  sword  ! 

And  the  heart  of  Boston  was  glad  to  hear 
How  he  harried  the  foe  on  the  long  frontier, 
And  heaped  on  the  land  against  him  barred 
The  coals  of  his  generous  watch  and  ward. 
Frailest  and  bravest !  th*e  Bay  State  still 
Counts  with  her  worthies  John  Underhill. 


IN  QUEST. 

HAVE  I  not  voyaged,  friend  beloved,  with  theo 
On  the  great  waters  of  the  unsounded  sea, 
Momently  listening  with  suspended  oar 
For  the  low  rote  of  waves  upon  a  shore 
Changeless  as    heaven,    where   never   fog-cloud 

drifts 

Over  its  windless  woods,  nor  mirage  lifts 
The  steadfast  hills  ;  where  never  birds  of  doubt 
Sing  to  mislead,  and  every  dream  dies  out, 
And  the  dark  riddles  which  perplex  us  here 
In  the  sharp  solvent  of  its  light  are  clear  ? 


A  SEA  DREAM. 


277 


Thou  knowest  how  vain  our  quest ;  how,  soon  or 

late, 

The  baffling  tides  and  circles  of  debate 
Swept  back  our  bark  unto  its  starting-place, 
Where,  looking  forth  upon  the  blank,  gray  space, 
And  round  about  us  seeing,  with  sad  eyes, 
The  same  old  difficult  hills  and  cloud-cold  skies, 
We  said  :  "  This  outward  search  availeth  not 
To  find  Him.     He  is  farther  than  we  thought, 
Or,  haply,  nearer.     To  this  very  spot 
Whereon  we  wait,  this  commonplace  of  home, 
As  to  the  well  of  Jacob,  He  may  come 
And  tell  us  all  things."     As  I  listened  there, 
Through  the  expectant  silences  of  prayer, 
Somewhat  I  seemed  to  hear,  which  hath  to  me 
Been  hope,  strength,  comfort,  and  I  give  it  thee. 

"The  riddle  of  the  world  is  understood 

Only  by  him  who  feels  that  God  is  good, 

As  only  he  can  feel  who  makes  his  love 

The  ladder  of  his  faith,  and  climbs  above 

On  th'  rounds  of  his  best  instincts  ;  draws  no  line 

Between  mere  human  goodness  a.nd  divine. 

But,  judging  God  by  what  in  him  is  best, 

With  a  child's  trust  leans  on  a  Father's  breast, 

And  hears  unmoved  the  old  creeds  babble  still 

Of  kingly  power  and  dread  caprice  of  will, 

Chary  of  blessing,  prodigal  of  curse, 

The  pitiless  doomsman  of  the  universe. 

Can  Hatred  ask  for  love  ?     Can  Selfishness 

Invite  to  self-denial  ?     Is  He  less 

Than  man  in  kindly  dealing  ?     Can  He  break 

His  own  great  law  of  fatherhood,  forsak? 

And  curse  His  children?    Not  for    earth    and 

heaven 

Can  separate  tables  of  the  law  be  given. 
No  rule  can  bind  which  He  himself  denies  ; 
The  truths  of  time  are  not  eternal  lies." 
So  heard  I ;  and  the  chaos  round  me  spread 
To  light  and  order  grew;  and,  "  Lord,"  I  said, 
"  Our  sins  are  our  tormentors,  worst  of  all 
Felt  in  distrustful  shame  that  dares  not  call 
Upon  Thee  as  our  Father.     We  have  set 
A  strange  god  up,  but  Thou  remainest  yet. 
All  that  I  feel  of  pity  Thou  hast  known 
Before  I  was  ;  my  best  is  all  Thy  own. 
From  Thy  great  heart  of  goodness  inins  but  drew 
Wishes  and  prayers  ;  but  Thou,  O  Lord,  wiit  do, 
In  Thy  own  time,  by  ways  I  cannot  see, 
All  that  I  feel  when  I  am  nearest  thee !  " 


A    SEA   DREAM. 

WE  saw  the  slow  tides  go  and  come, 
The  curving  surf-lines  lightly  drawn, 

The  gray  rocks  touched  with  tender  bloom 
Beneath  the  fresh-blown  rose  of  dawn. 

We  saw  in  richer  sunsets  lost 

The  sombre  pomp  of  showery  noons  ; 

And  signalled  spectral  sails  that  crossed 
The  weird,  low  light  of  rising  moons. 

On  stormy  eves  from  cliff  and  head 

We  saw  the  white  spray  tossed  and  spurned  ; 
While  over  all,  in  gold  and  red, 

Its  face  of  fire  the  lighthouse  turned. 

The  rail-car  brought  its  daily  crowds, 

Half  curious,  half  indifferent, 
Like  passing  sails  or  floating  clouds, 

We  saw  them  as  they  came  and  went. 

But,  one  calm  morning,  as  we  lay 
And  watched  the  mirage-lifted  wall 

Of  coast,  across  the  dreamy  bay, 
And  heard  afar  the  curlew  call. 


And  nearer  voices,  wild  or  tame, 
Of  airy  flock  and  childish  throng, 

Up  from  the  water's  edge  there  came 
Faint  snatches  of  familiar  song. 

Careless  we  heard  the  singer's  choice 
Of  old  and  common  airs ;  at  last 

The  tender  pathos  of  his  voice 
In  one  low  chanson  held  us  fast- 

A  song  that  mingled  joy  and  pain, 
And  memories  old  and  sadly  sweet : 

While,  timing  to  its  minor  strain, 
The  waves  in  lapsing  cadence  beat. 


The  waves  are  glad  in  breeze  and  sun ; 

The  rocks  are  fringed  with  foam  ; 
I  walk  once  more  a  haunted  shore, 

A  stranger,  yet  at  home, — 

A  land  of  dreams  I  roam. 

Is  this  the  wind,  the  soft  sea  wind 
That  stirred  thy  locks  of  brown  ? 

Are  these  the  rocks  whose  mosses  knew 
The  trail  of  thy  light  gown, 
Where  boy  and  girl  sat  down  ? 

I  see  the  gray  fort's  broken  wall, 

The  boats  that  rock  below  ; 
And,  out  at  sea,  the  passing  sails 

We  saw  so  long  ago 

Rose-red  in  morning's  glow. 

The  freshness  of  the  early  time 

On  every  breeze  is  blown ; 
As  glad  the  sea,  as  blue  the  sky, — 

The  change  is  ours  alone ; 

The  saddest  is  my  own. 

A  stranger  now,  a  world-worn  man, 

Is  he  who  bears  rny  name  ; 
But  thou,  methinks,  whose  mortal  life 

Immortal  youth  became, 

Art  evermore  the  same. 

Thou  art  not  here,  thou  art  not  there, 

Thy  place  I  cannot  see  ; 
I  only  know  that  where  thou  art 

The  blessed  angels  be, 

And  heaven  is  glad  for  thee. 

Forgive  me  if  the  evil  years 

Have  left  on  me  their  sign  ; 
Wash  out,  O  soul  so  beautiful, 

The  many  stains  of  mine 

In  tears  of  love  divine  ! 

I  could  not  look  on  thee  and  live, 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side  ; 
The  vision  of  a  shining  one, 

The  white  and  heavenly  bride, 

Is  well  to  me  denied. 

But  turn  to  me  thy  dear  girl-face 

Without  the  angel's  crown, 
The  wedded  roses  of  thy  lips, 

Thy  loose  hair  rippling  down 

In  waves  of  golden  brown. 

Look  forth  once  more  through  space  and  time, 

And  let  thy  sweet  shade  fall 
In  tenderest  grace  of  soul  and  form 

On  memory's  frescoed  wall. 

A  shadow,  and  yet  all ! 

Draw  near,  more  near,  forever  dear  ! 

Where'er  I  rest  or  roam, 
Or  in  the  city's  crowded  streets, 


278 


A  MYSTERY.— CONDUCTOR  BRADLEY. —CHILD-SONGS. 


Or  by  the  blown  sea  foam, 
The  thought  of  thee  is  home  ! 


At  breakfast  hour  the  singer  read 
The  city  news,  with  comment  wise, 

Like  one  who  felt  the  pulse  of  trade 
Beneath  his  finger  fall  and  rise. 

His  look,  his  air,  his  curt  speech,  told 
The  man  of  action,  not  of  books, 

To  whom  the  corners  made  in  gold 
And  stocks  were  more  than  seaside  nooks. 

Of  life  beneath  the  life  confessed 

His  song  had  hinted  unawares ; 
Of  flowers  in  traffic's  ledgers  pressed, 

Of  human  hearts  in  bulls  and  bears. 

But  eyes  in  vain  were  turned  to  watch 

That  face  so  hard  and  shrewd  and  strong  ; 

And  ears  in  vain  grew  sharp  to  catch 
The  meaning  of  that  morning  song. 

In  vain  some  sweet-voiced  querist  sought 
To  sound  him,  leaving  as  she  came  ; 

Her  baited  album  only  caught 
A  common,  unrom antic  name. 

No  word  betrayed  the  mystery  fine, 
That  trembled  on  the  singer's  tongue  ; 

He  came  and  went,  and  left  no  sign 
Behind  him  save  the  song  he  sung. 


A   MYSTERY. 

THE  river  hemmed  with  leaning  trees 
Wound  through  its  meadows  green  ; 

A  low,  blue  line  of  mountains  showed 
The  open  pines  between. 

One  sharp,  tall  peak  above  them  all 

Clear  into  sunlight  sprang  : 
I  saw  the  river  of  my  dreams, 

The  mountains  that  I  sang  ! 

No  clew  of  memory  led  me  on, 

But  well  the  ways  I  knew ; 
A  feeling  of  familiar  things 

With  every  footstep  grew. 

Not  otherwise  above  its  crag 
Could  lean  the  blasted  pine  ; 

Not  otherwise  the  maple  hold 
Aloft  its  red  ensign. 

So  up  the  long  and  shorn  foot-hills 
The  mountain  road  should  creep  ; 

So,  green  and  low,  the  meadow  fold 
Its  red-haired  kine  asleep. 

The  river  wound  as  it  should  wind  ; 

Their  place  the  mountains  took  ; 
The  white  torn  fringes  of  their  clouds 

Wore  no  unwonted  look  ; 

Yet  ne'er  before  that  river's  rim 
Was  pressed  by  feet  of  mine, 

Never  before  mine  eyes  had  crossed 
That  broken  mountain  line. 

A  presence,  strange  at  once  and  known. 

Walked  with  me  as  my  guide ; 
The  skirts  of  some  forgotten  life 

Trailed  noiseless  at  my  side. 


Was  it  a  dim-remembered  dream  ? 

Or  glimpse  through  aeons  old  ? 
The  secret  which  the  mountains  kept 

The  river  never  told. 

But  from  the  vision  ere  it  passed 

A  tender  hope  I  drew, 
And,  pleasant  as  a  dawn  of  spring, 

The  thought  within  me  grew, 

That  love  would  temper  every  change, 

And  soi  ten  all  surprise, 
And,  misty  with  the  dreams  of  earth, 

The  hills  of  Heaven  arise. 


CONDUCTOR   BRADLEY. 

CONDUCTOR  BRADLEY,  (always  may  his  name 
Be  said  with  reverence  !  )  as  the  swift  doom  came, 
Smitten  to  death,  a  crushed  and  mangled  frame, 

Sank,  with  the  brake  he  grasped  just  where  he 

stood 

To  do  the  utmost  that  a  brave  man  could, 
And  die,  if  needful,  as  a  true  man  should. 

Men  stooped  above  him ;    women  dropped  their 

tears 

On  that  poor  wreck  beyond  all  hopes  or  fears, 
Lost  in  the  strength  and  glory  of  his  years. 

What  heard  they  ?     Lo  !  the  ghastly  lips  of  pain, 
Dead  to  all  thought  save  duty's,  moved  again  : 
"  Put  out  the  signals  for  the  other  train  !  " 

No  nobler  utterance  since  the  world  began 
From  lips  or  saint  or  martyr  ever  ran, 
Electric,  through  the  sympathies  of  man. 

Ah  me  !  how  poor  and  noteless  seem  to  this 
The  sick-bed  dramas  of  self -consciousness, 
Our  sensual  fears  of  pain  and  hopes  of  bliss  ! 

O,  grand,  supreme  endeavor  !     Not  in  vain 
That  last  brave  act  of  failing  tongue  and  brain  ! 
Freighted  with  life  the  downward  rushing  train, 

Following  the  wrecked  one,  as  wave  follows  wave, 
Obeyed  the  warning  which  the  dead  lips  gave. 
Others  he  saved,  himself  he  could  not  save. 

Nay,  the  lost  life  was  saved.     He  is  not  dead 
Who  in  his  record  still  the  earth  shall  tread 
With  God's  clear  aureole  shining  round  his  head. 

We  bow  as  in  the  dust,  with  all  our  pride 
Of  virtue  dwarfed  the  noble  deed  beside. 
God  give  us  grace  to  live  as  Bradley  died ! 


CHILD-SONGS. 

STILL  linger  in  our  noon  of  time 
And  on  our  Saxon  tongue 

The  echoes  of  the  home-born  hymns 
The  Aryan  mothers  sung. 

And  childhood  had  its  litanies 

In  every  age  and  clime  ; 
The  earliest  cradles  of  the  race 

Were  rocked  to  poet's  rhyme. 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  OF  LONGWOOD. 


279 


Nor  sky,  nor  wave,  nor  tree,  nor  flower, 
Nor  green  earth's  virgin  sod, 

So  moved  the  singer's  heait  of  old 
As  these  small  ones  of  God. 

The  mystery  of  unfolding  life 
Was  more  than  dawning  morn, 

Than  opening  flower  or  crescent  moon 
Th3  human  soul  new-born  ! 

And  still  to  childhood's  sweet  appeal 

The  heart  of  genius  turns, 
And  more  than  all  tho  sages  teach 

From  lisping  voices  learns, — 

Tho  voices  loved  of  him  who  sang, 
Whsre  Tweed  and  Teviot  glide, 

That  sound  to-day  on  all  the  winds 
That  blow  from  Rydal-side, — 

Heard  in  the  Teuton's  household  songs, 

And  folk-lore  of  the  Finn, 
Where'er  to  holy  Christmas  hearths 

The  Christ-child  enters  in  ! 

Before  life's  sweetest  mystery  still 
The  heart  in  reverence  kneels  ; 

The  wonder  of  the  primal  birth 
The  latest  mother  feels. 

We  need  love's  tender  lessons  taught 

As  only  weakness  can  ; 
God  hath  his  small  interpreters ; 

The  child  must  teach  the  man. 

We  wander  wide  through  evil  years, 
Our  eyes  of  faith  grow  dim  ; 

But  he  is  freshest  from  His  hands 
And  nearest  unto  Him  ! 

And  haply,  pleading  long  with  Him 
For  sin-sick  hearts  and  cold. 

The  angels  of  our  childhood  still 
The  Father's  face  behold. 

Of  such  the  kingdom  ! — Teach  thou  us, 

O  Master  most  divine, 
To  feel  the  deep  significance 

Of  these  wise  words  of  thine  ! 

The  haughty  eye  shall  seek  in  vain 

What  innocence  beholds ; 
No  cunning  finds  the  key  of  heaven, 

No  strength  its  gate  unfolds. 

Alone  to  guilelessness  and  love 

That  gata  shall  open  fall ; 
The  mind  of  pride  is  nothingness 

The  childlike  heart  is  all ! 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  OF  LONGWOOD. 

WITH  fifty  years  between  you  and  your  well-kept 

wedding  vow, 
The  Golden  Age,  old  friends  of  mine,  is  not  a 

fable  now. 

And,  sweet  as  has  life's  vintage  been  through  all 

your  pleasant  past, 
Still,  as  at  Cana's  marriage-feast,  the  best  wine  is 

the  last ! 

Again  before  me,  with  your  names,  fair  Chester's 

landscape  comes, 
Its  meadows,  woods,  and  ample  barns,  and  quaint, 

stone-builded  homes. 


The  smooth-shorn  vales,  the  wheaten  slopes,  the 

boscage  green  and  soft, 
Of  which  their  poet  sings  so  well  from  towered 

Cedarcroft. 

And  lo  !  from  all  the  country-side  come  neigh 
bors,  kith  and  kin  ; 

From  city,  hamlet,  farm-house  old,  the  wedding 
guests  come  in. 

And  they  who,  without  scrip  or  purse,  mob- 
hunted,  travel-worn, 

In  Freedom's  age  of  martyrs  came,  as  victors 
now  return. 

Older  and  slower,  yet  the  same,  files  in  the  long 

tirray, 
And  hearts  are  light  and  eyes  are  glad,  though 

heads  are  badger-gray. 

The  fire-tried  men  of  Thirty-eight  who  saw  with 
me  the  fall, 

Midst  roaring  flames  and  shouting  mob,  of  Penn 
sylvania  Hall ; 

And  they  of  Lancaster  who  turned  the  cheeks  of 

tyrants  pale, 
Singing  of  freedom  through  the  grates  of  Moja- 

mensing  jail ! 

And  haply  with  them,  all  unseen,  old  comrades, 

gone  before, 

Pass,  silently  as  shadows  pass,  within  your  open 
door, — 

The  eagle  face  of  Lindley  Coates,  brave  Garrett's 

daring  zeal, 
The  Christian  grace  of  Pennock,  the  steadfast 

heart  of  Neal. 

Ah  me  !  beyond  all  power  to  name,  the  worthies 

tried  and  true, 
Grave  men,  fair  women,  youth  and  maid,  pass  by 

in  hushed  review. 

Of  varying  faiths,  a  common  cause  fused  all  their 

hearts  in  one. 
God  give  them  now,  whate'er  their  names,  the 

peace  of  duty  done  ! 

How  gladly  would  I  tread  a^ain  the  old-rernem- 


gladly  would 
bered  places, 


Sit  down  beside  your  hearth  once  more  and  look 
in  the  dear  old  faces  ! 

And  thank  you  for  the  lessons  your  fifty  years  are 

teaching, 
For  honest  lives  that  louder  speak  than  half  our 

noisy  preaching ; 

For  your  steady  faith  and  courage  in  that  dark 

and  evil  time, 
When  the  Golden  Rule  was  treason,  and  to  feed 

the  hungry,  crime ; 

!  For  the  poor  slave's  house  of  refuge  when  the 

hounds  were  on  his  track, 

And  saint  and  sinner,  church  and  state,  joined 
hands  to  send  him  back. 

Blessings  upon  you ! — What  you  did  for  each  sad, 

suffering  one, 

I  So  homeless,  faint,  and  naked,  unto  our  Lord  was 
done! 

Fair  fall  on  Kennett's  pleasant  vales  and  Long- 
wood's  bowery  ways 

The  mellow  sunset  of  your  lives,  friends  of  my 
early  days. 


KINSMAN.— VESTA.— A  CHRISTMAS  CARMEN. 


May  many  more  of  quiet  years  be  added  to  your 

sum, 
And,  late  at  last,  in  tenderest  love,  the  beckoning 

angel  come. 

Dear  hearts  are  here,  dear  hearts  are  there,  alike 

below,  above ; 
Our  friends  are  now  in  either  world,  and  love  is 

sure  of  love. 


KINSMAN. 

DIED    AT    THE     ISLAND    OF    PANAT    (PHILIPPINE 
GROUP),    AGED  19  YEARS. 

WHERE  ceaseless  Spring  her  garland  twines, 
As  sweetly  shall  the  loved  one  rest, 


s  if  beneath  the  whispering  pi: 
And  maple  shadows  of  the  W 


ines 

est. 


Ye  mourn,  O  hearts  of  home !  for  him, 
But,  haply,  mourn  ye  not  alone  ; 

For  him  shall  far-off  eyes  be  dim, 
And  pity  speak  in  tongues  unknown. 

There  needs  no  graven  line  to  give 
The  story  of  his  blameless  youth ; 

All  hearts  shall  throb  intuitive, 
And  nature  guess  the  simple  truth. 

The  very  meaning  of  his  name 
Shall  many  a  tender  tribute  win  ; 

The  stranger  own  his  sacred  claim. 
And  all  the  world  shall  be  his  kin. 

And  there,  as  here,  on  main  and  isle, 
The  dews  of  holy  peace  shall  fall, 

The  same  sweet  heavens  above  him  smile, 
And  God's  dear  love  be  over  all ! 


VESTA. 

O  CHRIST  of  God  !  whose  life  and  death 

Our  own  have  reconciled, 
Most  quietly,  most  tenderly 

Take  home  thy  star-named  child ! 

Thy  grace  is  in  her  patient  eyes, 
Thy  words  are  on  her  tongue ; 

The  very  silence  round  her  seems 
As  if  the  angels  sung. 

Her  smile  is  as  a  listening  child's 

Who  hears  its  mother  call ; 
The  lilies  of  Thy  perfect  peace 

About  her  pillow  fall. 

She  leans  from  out  our  clinging  arms 

To  rest  herself  in  Thine  ; 
Alone  to  Thee,  dear  Lord,  can  we 

Our  well-beloved  resign  ! 

O,  less  for  her  than  for  ourselves 
We  bow  our  heads  and  pray  ; 

Her  setting  star,  like  Bethlehem's, 
To  Thee  shall  point  the  way ! 


THE  HEALER. 

TO  A   YOUNG    PHYSICIAN,    WITH   DORE'S   PICTURE 
OF   CHRIST   HEALING  THE   SICK. 

So  stood  of  old  the  holy  Christ 
Amidst  the  suffering  throng  ; 

With  whom  his  lightest  touch  sufficed 
To  make  the  weakest  strong. 

That  healing  gift  he  lends  to  them 

Who  use  it  in  his  name  ; 
The  power  that  filled  his  garment's  hem 

Is  evermore  the  same. 

For  lo  !  in  human  hearts  unseen 

The  Healer  dwelleth  still, 
And  they  who  make  his  temples  clean 

The  best  subserve  his  will. 

The  holiest  task  by  Heaven  decreed, 

An  errand  all  divine, 
The  burden  of  our  corrmion  need 

To  render  less  is  thine. 

The  paths  of  pain  are  thine.     Go  forth 
With  patience,  trust,  and  hope  ; 

The  sufferings  of  a  sin-sick  earth 
Shall  give  thee  ample  scope. 

Beside  the  unveiled  mysteries 

Of  life  and  death  go  stand, 
With  guarded  lips  and  reverent  eyes 

And  pure  of  heart  and  hand. 

So  shalt  thou  be  with  power  endued 

From  Him  who  went  about 
The  Syrian  hillsides  doing  good, 

And  casting  demons  out. 

That  Good  Physician  liveth  yet 

Thy  friend  and  guide  to  be ; 
The  Healer  by  Gennesaret 

Shall  walk  the  rounds  with  thee. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CARMEN, 
i. 

I  SOUND  over  all  waters,  reach  out  from  all  lands, 
The  chorus  of  voices,  the  clasping  of  hands  ; 
Sing  hymns  that  were  sung  by  the  stars  of  the 

morn, 

Sing  songs  of  the  angels  when  Jesus  was  born ! 
With  glad  jubilations 
Bring  hope  to  the  nations  ! 
The  dark  night  is  ending  and  dawn  has  begun : 
Rise,  hope  of  the  ages,  arise  like  the  sun, 

All  speech  flow  to  music,  all  hearts  beat  as  one  ! 


Sing  the  bridal  of  nations  !  with  chorals  of  love 
Sing  out  the  war-vulture  and  sing  in  the  dove, 
Till  the  hearts  of  the  peoples  keep  time  in  accord, 
And  the  voice  of  the  world  is  the  voice  of  the 
Lord! 

Clasp  hands  of  the  nations 

In  strong  gratulations : 

The  dark  night  is  ending  and  dawn  has  begun  ; 
Rise,  hope  of  the  ages,  arise  like  the  sun, 

All  speech  flow  to  music,  all  hearts  beat  as  one  ! 


HYMN.— THE  DREAM  OF  ARGYLE. 


281 


Blow,  bugles  of  battle,  the  inarches  of  peace  ; 
East,  west,  north,  and  south  let  the  long  quarrel 

cease : 

Sing  the  song  of  great  joy  that  the  angels  began, 
Sing  of  glory  to  God  and  of  good- will  to  man  ! 

Hark  !  joining  in  chorus 

The  heavens  bend  o'er  us  ! 

The  dark  night  is  ending  and  dawn  has  begun  ; 
Rise,  hope  of  the  ages,  arise  like  the  sun, 
All  speech  flow  to  music,  all  hearts  beat  as  one ! 


HYMN 

FOR    THE    OPENING  OP    PLYMOUTH   CHURCH,     ST. 
PAUL,    MINNESOTA. 

ALL  things  are  Thine  :  no  gifts  have  we, 
Lord  of  all  gifts  !  to  offer  Thee  ; 


And  hence  with  grateful  hearts  to-day, 
Thy  own  before  Thy  feet  we  lay. 

Thy  will  was  in  the  builders'  thought  ; 
Thy  hand  unseen  amidst  us  wrought ; 
Through  mortal  motive,  scheme  and  plan, 
Thy  wise  eternal  purpose  ran. 

No  lack  Thy  perfect  fulness  knew  ; 
For  human  needs  and  longings  grew 
This  house  of  prayer,  this  home  of  rest, 
In  the  fair  garden  of  the  West. 

In  weakness  and  in  want  we  call 

On  Thee  for  whom  the  heavens  are  small  •, 

Thy  glory  is  Thy  children's  good, 

Thy  joy  Thy  tender  Fatherhood. 

O  Father  !  deign  these  walls  to  bless  : 
Fill  with  Thy  love  their  emptiness  : 
And  let  their  door  a  gateway  be 
To  lead  us  from  ourselves  to  Thee  ! 


POEMS 

BY 

ELIZABETH   H.  WHITTIER. 


THE  DREAM  OF  ARGYLE. 

EARTHLY  arms  no  more  uphold  him 
On  his  prison's  stony  floor ; 

Waiting  death  in  his  last  slumber, 
Lies  the  doomed  MacCallum  More. 

And  he  dreams  a  dream  of  boyhood ; 

Rise  again  his  heathery  hills, 
Sound  again  the  hound's  long  baying, 

Cry  of  moor-fowl,  laugh  of  rills. 

Now  he  stands  amidst  his  clansmen 
In  the  low,  long  banquet-hall, 

Over  grim,  ancestral  armor 
Sees  the  ruddy  firelight  fall. 

Once  again,  with  pulses  beating, 
Hears  the  wandering  minstrel  tell 

How  Montrose  on  Inverary 

Thief -like  from  his  mountains  fell. 

Down  the  glen,  beyond  the  castle, 
Where  the  linn's  swift  waters  shine, 

Round  the  youthful  heir  of  Argyle 
Shy  feet  glide  and  white  arms  twine. 

Fairest  of  the  rustic  dancers, 

Blue-eyed  Effie  smiles  once  more, 

Bends  to  him  her  snooded  tresses, 
Treads  with  him  the  grassy  floor. 

Now  he  hears  the  pipes  lamenting, 
Harpers  for  his  mother  mourn, 

Slow,  with  sable  plume  and  pennon, 
To  her  cairn  of  burial  borne. 

Then  anon  his  dreams  are  darker, 
Sounds  of  battle  fill  his  ears, 


And  the  pibroch's  mournful  wailing 
For  his  father's  fall  he  hears. 

Wild  Lochaber1s  mountain  echoes 
Wail  in  concert  for  the  dead, 

And  Loch  Awe's  deep  waters  murmur 
For  the  Campbell's  glory  fled  ! 

Fierce  and  strong  the  godless  tyrants 

Trample  the  apostate  land, 
While  her  poor  and  faithful  remnant 

Wait  for  the  Avenger's  hand. 

Once  again  at  Inverary, 

Years  of  weary  exile  o'er, 
Armed  to  lead  his  scattered  clansmen, 

Stands  the  bold  MacCallum  More. 

Once  again  to  battle  calling 

Sound  the  war-pipes  through  the  glen 
And  the  court-yard  of  Dunstaffnage 

Rings  with  tread  of  armed  men. 

All  is  lost !  The  godless  triumph, 
And  the  faithful  ones  and  true 

From  the  scaffold  and  the  prison 
Covenant  with  God  anew. 

On  the  darkness  of  his  dreaming 
Great  and  sudden  glory  shone ; 

Over  bonds  and  death  victorious 
Stands  he  by  the  Father's  throne  ! 

From  the  radiant  ranks  of  martyrs 
Notes  of  joy  and  praise  he  hears, 

Songs  of  his  poor  land's  deliverance 
Sounding  from  the  future  years. 


282 


LINES.— JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 


Lo,  he  wakes  !  but  airs  celestial 
Bathe  him  in  immortal  rest, 

And  he  sees  with  unsealed  vision 
Scotland's  cause  with  victory  blest. 

Shining  hosts  attend  and  guard  him 
As  he  leaves  his  prison  door  ; 

And  to  d  eath  as  to  a  triumph 

Walks  the  great  MacCallum  More  ! 


I  Where  England's  far  dependencies  her  might,  not 

mercy,  know, 
i  To  all  the  crushed  and  suffering  there  his  pityirg 

love  shall  flow. 

The  friend  of  freedom  everywhere,    how  mourns 

he  for  our  land, 
The  brand  of  whose  hypocrisy  burns  on  her  guilty 

hand! 
Her  thrift  a  theft,  the  robber's  greed  and  cunning 

in  her  eye, 
Her  glory  shame,    her   flaunting  flag  on  all  the 

winds  a  lie ! 

For  us  with  steady  strength  of  heart  and  zeal  for 
ever  true, 
LINES  The  champion  of  the  island  slave  the  conflict  doth 

renew, 
WRITTEN  ON  THE  DEPARTURE  or  JOSEPH  STURGE,  ;  His  labor  here  hath  been  to  point  the  Pharisaic 


AFTER     HIS     VISIT    TO    THE    ABOLITIONISTS   OF 
THE   UNITED   STATES. 


eye 


Away  from  empty  creed  and  form  to  where  the 

wounded  lie. 
FAIR  islands  of  the  sunny  sea !     midst    all  re 
joicing  things,  How  beautiful  to  us  should  seem  the  coming  feet 
No  more  the  wailing  of  the  slave  a  wild  discord-  |  of  such  ! 

ance  brings ;  i  Their  garments  of    self-sacrifice  have  healing  in 

On  the  lifted  brows  of  freemen  the  tropic  breezes  their  touch  ; 

blow.  Their  gospel   mission  none  may  doubt,    for  they 


The  mildew  of  the  bondman's  toil  the  land  no 
more  shall  know. 

How  swells  from  those  green  islands,  where  bird 
and  leaf  and  flower 

Are  praising  in  their  own  sweet  way  the  dawn  of 
freedom's  hour, 

The  glorious  resurrection  song  from  hearts  rejoic 
ing  poured, 

Thanksgiving  for  the  priceless  gift, — man's  regal 
crown  restored ! 

How  beautiful  through  all  the  green  and  tranquil 
summer  land, 

Uplifted,  as  by  miracle,  the  solemn  churches 
stand  ! 

The  grass  is  trodden  from  the  paths  where  wait 
ing  freemen  throng, 

Athirst  and  fainting  for  the  cup  of  life  denied  so 
long. 

O,  blessed  were  the  feet  of  him  whose  generous 
errand  here 

Was  to  unloose  the  captive's  chain  and  dry  the 
mourner's  tear ; 

To  lift  again  the  fallen  ones  a  brother's  robber 
hand 

Had  left  in  pain  and  wretchedness  by  the  way 
sides  of  the  land. 

The  islands  of  the  sea  rejoice ;  the  harvest  an 
thems  rise ; 

The  sower  of  the  seed  must  own  't  is  marvellous 
in  his  eyes ; 

The  old  waste  places  are    rebuilt, — the    broken 


heed  the  Master's  call, 
Who  here  walked  with  the  multitude,  and  sat  at 
meat  with  all ! 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 

HE    rests  with   the  immortals ;  his  journey  has 

been  long : 
For  him  no  wail  of  sorrow, 'but  a  psean  full  and 

strong ! 
So  well  and  bravely  has  he  done    the  work  he 

found  to  do, 
To  justice,  freedom,  duty,  God,  and  man  forever 

true. 

Strong  to  the  end,  a  man  of  men,  from  out  the 

strife  he  passed  ; 
The  grandest  hour  of  all  his  life  was  that  of  earth 

the  last. 
Now  midst  his  snowy  hills  of  home  to  the  grave 

they  bear  him  down, 
The  glory  of  his  fourscore  years  resting  en  him 

like  a  crcwn. 

The  mourning  of  the  many  bells,  the  drooping 
flags,  all  seem 

Like  some  dim,  unreal  pageant  passing  onward  in 
a  dream  ; 

And  following  with  the  living  to  his  last  and  nar 
row  bed, 


walls  restored,—  j  Methinks  1  see  a  shadowy  band,  a  train  of  noble 

And  the  wilderness  is  blooming  like  the  garden  of  .  dead, 

the  Lord  ! 

Thanksgiving  for  the  holy  fruit !     should  not  the  |  'T  is  a  strange^ weird  procession  that  is  slow- 
His  ealnestTaiTh^nd  works  of  love  have  been  so  !  The  ph|n|om  paMots  gathered  to  the  funeral  of 

The  PrrideWof  au'fair  England  shall  her  ocean  isl-  j  In  shadowy  guise  they  move  along,  brave  Otis 
ands  be  vfith  mished  tread, 

And  their  peasantry  with  joyful  hearts  keep  I  And  Warren  walking  reverently  by  the  father  of 
ceaseless  jubilee.  the  dead- 

Gliding  foremost  in  the  misty  band  a  gentle  form 


Rest,  never  !  while  his  countrymen  have  trampled 

hearts  to  bleed, 
The  stifled  murmur  of  their  wrongs  his  listening    In  the  white  robes  of  the  angels  and  their  glory 

ear  shall  heed,  round  her  hair. 


is  there, 


DR,  KANE  IN  CUBA.— LADY  FRANKLIN.— NIGHT  AND  DEATH. 


283 


She  hovers  near  and  bends  above  her  world-wide 

honored  child, 
And  the  joy  that  heaven  alone  can  know  beams 

on  her  features  mild. 

And  so  they  bear  him  to  his  grave  in  the  fulness 

of  his  years, 
True  sage  and  prophet,  leaving  us  in  a  time  of 

many  fears. 
Nevermore  amid  the  darkness  of  our  wild  and 

evil  day 
Shall  his  voice  be  heard  to  cheer  us,   shall  his 

finger  point  the  way. 


DR.  KANE  IN  CUBA. 

A  NOBLE  life  is  in  thy  care, 

A  sacred  trust  to  thee  is  given ; 
Bright  Island  !  let  thy  healing  air 

Be  to  him  as  the  breath  of  Heaven. 

The  marvel  of  his  daring  life — 
The  self -forgetting  leader  bold — 

Stirs,  like  the  trumpet's  call  to  strife, 
A  million  hearts  of  meaner  mould. 

Eyes  that  shall  never  meet  his  own 
Look  dim  with  tears  across  the  sea, 

Where  from  the  dark  and  icy  zone, 
Sweet  Isle  of  Flowers  !  he  comes  to  thee. 

Fold  him  in  rest,  O  pitying  clime  ! 

Give  back  his  wasted  strength  again  ; 
Soothe,  with  thy  endless  summer  time, 

His  winter-wearied  heart  and  brain. 

Sing  soft  and  low,  thou  tropic  bird, 
From  out  the  fragrant,  flowery  tree, — 

The  ear  that  hears  thee  now  has  heard 
The  ice-break  of  the  winter  sea. 

Through  his  long  watch  of  awful  night, 
He  saw  the  Bear  in  Northern  skies  ; 

Now,  to  the  Southern  Cross  of  light 
He  lifts  in  hope  his  weary  eyes. 

Prayers  from  the  hearts  that  watched  in  fear, 
When  the  dark  North  no  answer  gave, 

Rise,  trembling,  to  the  Father's,  ear, 
That  still  His  love  may  help  and  save. 


LADY  FRANKLIN. 

FOLD  thy  hands,  thy  work  is  over ; 

Cool  thy  watching  eyes  with  tears  ; 
L  jt  thy  poor  heart,  over-wearied, 

Rest  alike  from  hopes  and  fears, — 

Hopes,  that  saw  with  sleepless  vision 
One  sad  picture  fading  slow  ; 

Fears,  that  followed,  vague  and  nameless, 
Lifting  back  the  veils  of  snow. 

For  thy  brave  one,  for  thy  lost  one, 
Truest  heart  of  woman,  weep  ! 

Owning  still  the  love  that  granted 
Unto  thy  beloved  sleep. 

Not  for  him  that  hour  of  terror 
When,  the  long  ice-battle  o'er, 

In  the  sunless  day  his  comrades 
Deathward  trod  the  Polar  shore. 


Spared  the  cruel  cold  and  famine, 
Spared  the  fainting  heart's  despair, 

What  but  that  could  mercy  grant  him  ? 
What  but  that  has  been  thy  prayer  ? 

Dear  to  thee  that  last  memorial 
From  the  cairn  beside  the  sea ; 

Evermore  the  month  of  roses 
Shall  be  sacred  time  to  thee. 

Sad  it  is  the  mournful  yew-tree 
O'er  his  slumbers  may  not  wave  ; 

Sad  it  is  the  English  daisy 
May  not  blossom  on  his  grave. 

But  his  tomb  shall  storm  and  winter 
Shape  and  fashion  year  by  year, 

Pile  his  mighty  mausoleum, 
Block  by  block,  and  tier  on  tier. 

Guardian  of  its  gleaming  portal 
Shall  his  stainless  honor  be, 

While  thy  love,  a  sweet  immortal, 
Hovers  o'er  the  winter  sea. 


NIGHT  AND  DEATH. 

THE  storm-wind  is  howling 

Through  old  pines  afar  ; 
The  drear  night  is  falling 

Without  moon  or  star. 

The  roused  sea  is  lashing 

The  bold  shore  behind, 
And  the  moan  of  its  ebbing 

Keeps  time  with  the  wind. 

On,  on  through  the  darkness, 

A  spectre,  I  pass 
Where,  like  moaning  of  broken  hearts, 

Surges  the  grass ! 

I  see  her  lone  head -stone, — 

'T  is  white  as  a  shroud  ; 
Like  a  pall,  hangs  above  it 

The  low  drooping  cloud. 

Who  speaks  through  the  dark  night 

And  lull  of  the  wind  ? 
'T  is  the  sound  of  the  pine-leaves 

And  sea-waves  behind. 

The  dead  girl  is  silent, — 

I  stand  by  her  now ; 
And  her  pulse  beats  no  quicker, 

Nor  crimsons  her  brow. 

The  small  hand  that  trembled, 

When  last  in  my  own, 
Lies  patient  and  folded, 

And  colder  than  stone. 

Like  the  white  blossoms  falling 

To-night  in  the  gale, 
So  she  in  her  beauty 

Sank  mournful  and  pale. 

Yet  I  loved  her  !     I  utter 

Such  words  by  her  grave, 
As  I  would  not  have  spoken 

Her  last  breath  to  save. 

Of  her  love  the  angels 

In  heaven  might  tell, 
While  mine  would  be  whispered 

With  shudders  in  hell ! 


284 


THE  MEETING  WATERS.— THE  WEDDING  VEIL.— CHARITY. 


'T  was  well  that  the  white  ones 

Who  bore  her  to  bliss 
Shut  out  from  her  new  life 

The  vision  of  this. 

Else,  sure  as  I  stand  here, 

An  I  speak  of  my  love, 
She  would  leave  for  my  darkness 

Her  glory  above. 


THE  MEETING  WATERS. 

CLOSE  beside  the  meeting  waters, 

Long  I  stood  as  in  a  dream, 
Watching  how  the  little  river 

Pell  into  the  broader  stream. 

Calm  and  still  the  mingled  current 

Glided  to  the  waiting  sea ; 
On  its  breast  serenely  pictured 

Floating  cloud  and  skirting  tree. 

And  I  thought,  "  O,  human  spirit ! 

Strong  and  deep  and  pure  and  blest, 
Let  the  stream  of  my  existence 

Blend  with  thine,  and  find  its  rest !  " 

I  could  die  as  dies  the  river, 
In  that  current  deep  and  wide  ; 

I  would  live  as  live  its  waters. 
Flashing  from  a  stronger  tide  ! 


THE  WEDDING  VEIL. 

DEAR  ANNA,  when  I  brought  her  veil, 
Her  white  veil  on  her  wedding  night, 

Threw  o'er  my  thin  brown  hair  its  folds, 
And,  laughing,  turned  me  to  the  light. 


"  See,  Bessie,  see  !  you  wear  at  last 
The  bridal  veil,  foresworn  for  years  !  " 

She  saw  my  face, — her  laugh  was  hushed, 
Her  happy  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

With  kindly  haste  and  trembling  hand 
She  drew  away  the  gauzy  mist ; 

"•  Forgive,  dear  heart  !  "  her  sweet  voice  said 
Her  loving  lips  my  forehead  kissed. 

We  passed  from  out  the  searching  light ; 

The  summer  night  was  calm  and  fair: 
I  did  not  see  her  pitying  eyes, 

I  felt  her  soft  hand  smooth  my  hair. 

Her  tender  love  unlocked  my  heart ; 

'Mid  falling  tears,  at  last  I  said, 
"  Foresworn  indeed  to  me  that  veil 

Because  I  only  love  the  dead  !  " 

She  stood  one  moment  statue-still, 
And,  musing,  spake  in  undertone, 

u  The  living  love  may  colder  grow  ; 
The  dead  is  safe  with  God  alone  !  " 


CHARITY. 

THE  pilgrim  and  stranger  who  through  the  day 
Holds  over  the  desert  his  trackless  way 
Where  the  terrible  sands  no  shade  have  known 
No  sound  of  life  save  his  camel's  moan, 
Hears,  at  last,  through  the  mercy  of  Allah  to  all, 
From  his  tent-door  at  evening  the  Bedouin's  call : 
"  Whoever  thou  art  whose  need  is  great, 
In  the  name  of  God,  the  Compassionate 
And  Merciful  One,  for  thee  1  wait !  " 

For  gifts  in  His  name  of  food  and  rest 
The  tents  of  Islam  of  God  are  blest, 
Thou  who  hast  faith  in  the  Christ  above, 
Shall  the  Koran  teach  thee  the  Law  of  Love  ?- 
O,  Christian  ! — open  thy  heart  and  door, 
Cry  east  and  west  to  the  wandering  poor : 
14  Whoever  thou  art  whose  need  is  great, 
In  the  name  of  Christ,  the  Compassionate 
And  Merciful  One,  for  thee  I  wait  !  " 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1,  page  11. 

MOGG  MEGONE,  or  Hegone,  was  a  leader  among 
the  Saco  Indians,  in  the  bloody  war  of  1677.  He 
attacked  and  captured  the  garrison  at  Black 
Point,  October  12th  of  that  year ;  and  cut  off,  at 
the  same  time,  a  party  of  Englishmen  near  Saco 
River.  From  a  deed  signed  by  this  Indian  in  1 664, 
and  from  other  circumstances,  it  seems  that,  pre 
vious  to  the  war,  he  had  mingled  much  wit'i  the 
colonists.  On  this  account,  he  was  probably 
selected  by  the  principal  sachems  as  their  agent 
in  the  treaty  signed  in  November,  1676. 

NOTE  2,  page  11. 

Baron  de  St.  Castine  came  to  Canada  in  1644. 
Leaving  his  civilized  companions,  he  plunged  into 
the  great  wilderness  and  settled  among  the 
Penobscot  Indians,  near  the  mouth  of  their 
noble  river.  He  here  took  for  his  wives  the 
daughters  of  the  great  Modocawando, — the  most 
powerful  sachem  of  the  East.  His  castle  was 
plundered  by  Govenor  Andros,  during  his  reckless 
administration;  and  the  enraged  Baron  is  sup 
posed  to  have  excited  the  Indians  into  open  hos 
tility  to  the  English. 

NOTE  3,  page  11. 

The  owner  and  commander  of  the  garrison  at 
Black  Point,  which  Mogg  attacked  and  plundered. 
He  was  an  old  man  at  the  period  to  which  the  tale 
relates. 

NOTE  4,  page  11. 

Major  Phillips,  one  of  the  principal  men  of  the 
Colony.  His  garrison  sustained  a  long  and  terrible 
siege  by  the  savages.  As  a  magistrate  and  a 
gentleman,  he  exacted  of  his  plebeian  neighbors 
a  remarkable  degree  of  deference.  The "  Court 
Records  of  the  settlement  inform  us  that  an  indi 
vidual  was  fined  for  the  heinous  offence  of  saying 
that  "  Major  Phillips's  mare  was  as  lean  as  an 
Indian  dog." 

NOTE  5,  page  11. 

Captain  Harmon,  of  Georgiana,  now  York,  was, 
for  many  years,  the  terror  of  the  Eastern  In 
dians.  In  one  of  his  expeditions  up  the  Kennebec 
River,  at  the  head  of  a  party  of  rangers,  he  dis 
covered  twenty  of  the  savages  asleep  by  a  large 
fire.  Cautiously  creeping  towards  them  until  he 
was  certain  of  his  aim,  he  ordered  his  men  to 
single  out  their  objects.  The  first  discharge  killed 
or  mortally  wounded  the  whole  number  of  the 
unconscious  sleepers. 


NOTE  6,  page  11. 

Wood  Island,  near  the  mouth  of  the  Saco.      It 
was  visited  by  the  Sieur  de  Monts  and  Cham- 
j  plain,  in  1603.     The  following  extract,  from  the 
I  journal  of  the  latter,  relates  to  it :   "  Having  left 
|  the  Kennebec,   we  ran  along  the  coast  to  the 
westward,  and  cast  anchor  under  a  small  island, 
I  near  the  mainland,  where  we  saw  twenty  or  more 
I  natives.     I  here  visited    an  island,    beautifully 
I  clothed  with  a  fine  growth  of  forest  trees,  partic 
ularly  of  the  oak  and  walnut ;  and  overspread 
with  vines,  that,  in  their  season,  produce  excel 
lent  grapes.    We  named  it  the  island  of  Bacchus." 
— Les  Voyagcsde  Sieur  Champlain,  Liv.  2,  c.  8. 

NOTE  7,  page  11. 

John  Bonython  was  the  son  of  Richard  Bony 
thon,  Gent.,  one  of  the  most  efficient  and  able 
magistrates  of  the  Colony.    John  proved  to  be  "a 
degenerate  plant."     In  1635,  we  find,  by  the  Court 
Records,  that,  for  some  offence,  he  was  fined  40s. 
!  In  1640,  he  was  fined  for  abuse  toward  R.  Gibson, 
!  the  minister,  and  Mary  his  wife.     Soon  after  he 
I  was  fined  for  disorderly  conduct  in  the  house  of 
I  his  father.       In  1645,  the  "  Great  and  General 
!  Court "  adjudged  John  Bonython  outlawed,  and 
j  incapable  of  any  of  his  Majesty's  laws,  and  pro- 
j  claimed  him  a  rebel."      (Court  Records  of  the 
Province,  1645. )     In  1651,  he  bade  defiance  to  the 
laws  of  Massachusetts,  and  was  again  outlawed. 
He  acted  independently  of  all  law  and  authority ; 
and  hence,  doubtless,  his  burlesque  title  of  "The 
Sagamore  of  Saco,"  which  has  come  down  to 
the  present  generation  in  the  following  epitaph : — 

"  Here  lies  Bonython  ;  the  Sagamore  of  Saco, 
He  lived  a  rogue,  and  died  a  knave,  and  went  to 
Hobomoko." 

By  some  means  or  other,  he  obtained  a  large  estate. 
In  this  poem,  I  have  taken  some  liberties  with 
him,  not  strictly  warranted  by  historical  facts, 
although  the  conduct  imputed  to  him  is  in  keeping 
with  his  general  character.  Over  the  last  years 
of  his  life  lingers  a  deep  obscurity.  Even  the 
manner  of  his  death  is  uncertain.  He  was  sup 
posed  to  have  been  killed  by  the  Indians  ;  but 
this  is  doubted  by  the  able  and  indefatigable 
author  of  the  History  of  Saco  and  Biddeford. — 
Parti,  p.  115. 

NOTE  8,  page  11. 

Foxwell's  Brook  flows  from  a  marsh  or  bog, 
called  the  "  Heath,"  in  Saco,  containing  thirteen 
hundred  acres.  On  this  brook,  and  surrounded 
by  wild  and  romantic  scenery,  is  a  beautiful  water 
fall,  of  more  than  sixty  feet. 


286 


NOTES. 


NOTE  9,  page  12. 

Hiacoomes,  the  first  Christian  preacher  on 
Martha's  Vineyard  ;  for  a  biography  of  whom  the 
reader  is  referred  to  Increase  Mayhew's  account 
of  the  Praying  Indians,  1726.  The  following  is 
related  of  him  :  "  One  Lord's  day,  after  meeting, 
where  Hiacoomes  had  been  preaching,  there  came 
in  a  Powwaw  very  angry,  and  said,  1 1  know  all 
the  meeting  Indians  are  liars.  You  say  you  don't 
care  for  the  Powwaws ' ; — then  calling  two  or 
three  of  them  by  name,  he  railed  at  them,  and 
told  them  they  were  deceived,  for  the  Powwaws 
could  kill  all  the  meeting  Indians,  if  they  set 
about  it.  But  Hiacoomes  told  him  that  he  would 
be  in  the  midst  of  all  the  Powwaws  in  the  island, 
and  they  should  do  the  utmost  they  could  against 
him ;  and  when  they  should  do  their  worst  by  their 
witchcraft  to  kill  him,  he  would  without  fear  set 
himself  against  them,  by  remembering  Jehovah. 
He  told  them  also  he  did  put  all  the  Powwaws 
under  his  heel.  Such  was  the  faith  of  this  good 
man.  Nor  were  these  Powwaws  ever  able  to  do 
these  Christian  Indians  any  hurt,  though  others 
were  frequently  hurt  and  killed  by  them." — 
Mayhew,  pp.  6,  7,  c.  i. 

NOTE  10,  page  13. 

"  The  tooth -ache,"  says  Roger  Williams  in  his 
observations  upon  the  language  and  customs  of 
the  New  England  tribes,  "  is  the  only  paine  which 
will  force  their  stoute  hearts  to  cry."  He  after 
wards  remarks  that  even  the  Indian  women  never 
cry  as  he  has  heard  "some  of  their  men  in  this 
paine." 

NOTE  11,  page  14. 

Wuttamuttnta,  u  Let  us  drink."  Weekan,  "It 
is  sweet."  Vide  Roger  Williams's  Key  to  the 
Indian  Language,  "in  that  parte  of  America 
called  New  England."  London,  1043,  p.  35. 

NOTE  12,  page  14. 

Wetuomanit, — a  house  god,  or  demon.  "  They 
— the  Indians — have  given  me  the  names  of 
thirty-seven  gods  which  I  have,  all  which  in  their 
solemne  Worships  they  invocate  !  "  R.  Williams's 
Briefe  Observations  of  the  Customs,  Manners, 
Worships,  <fec.,  of  the  Natives,  in  Peace  and 
Warre,  in  Life  and  Death  :  on  all  which  is  added 
Spiritual  Observations,  General  and  Particular, 
of  Chiefe  and  Special  use — upon  all  occasions — 
to  all  the  English  inhabiting  these  parts  ;  yet 
Pleasant  and  Profitable  to  the  view  of  all  Mene. — 
p.  110,  c.  21. 

NOTE  13,  page  15. 

Mt.  Desert  Island,  the  Bald  Mountain  upon 
which  overlooks  Frenchman's  and  Penobscot  Bay. 
It  was  upon  this  Island  that  tfye  Jesuits  made  their 
earliest  settlement. 

NOTE  14,  page  15. 

Father  Hennepin,  a  missionary  among  the 
Iroquois,  mentions  that  the  Indians  believed  him 
to  be  a  conjuror,  and  that  they  were  particularly 
afraid  of  a  bright  silver  chalice  which  he  had  in 
his  possession.  "The  Indians,"  says  Pere  Jerome 
Lallamant,  "  fear  us  as  the  greatest  sorcerers  on 
earth." 

NOTE  15,  page  16. 

Bomazeen  is  spoken  of  by  Penhallow,  as  "the 
famous  warrior  and  chieftain  of  Norridgewock." 
He  was  killed  in  the  attack  of  the  English  upon 
Norridgewock,  in  1724. 


NOTE  16,  page  16. 

Pere  Ralle,   or  Rasles,  was  one  of  the  most 
zealous  and  indefatigable  of  that  band  of  Jesuit 
missionaries  who,  at  the  beginning  of  the  seven 
teenth  century,  penetrated  the  forests  of  America, 
with  the  avowed  object  of  converting  the  heathen. 
The  first  religious  mission  of  the  Jesuits,  to  the 
savages  in  North  America,  was  in  161 1.     The  zeal 
of  the  fathers  for  the  conversion  of  the  Indians 
to  the  Catholic  faith  knew  no  bounds.     For  this, 
they  plunged  into  the  depths  of  the  wilderness  ; 
habituated  themselves  to  all  the  hardships  and 
privations  of  the  natives;  suffered  cold,  hunger, 
;  and  some  of  them  death  itself,  by  the  extremest 
I  tortures.      Pere  Brebeuf,   after  laboring  in   the 
!  cause  of  his  mission  for  twenty  years,  together 
with  his  companion,  Pere  Lallamant,  was  burned 
|  alive.     To   these  might  be  added  the  names   of 
those  Jesuits  who  were  put  to  death  by  the  Iro- 
!  quois, — Daniel,  Gamier,  Buteaux,  La  Riborerde, 
1  Goupil,   Constantin,  and  Liegeouis.     "For  bed," 
says  Father  Lallamant,  in  his  Relation  cle  ce  qui 
s'cst  clans  le  pays  des  Hurons,  KJ40,  c.  3,  "we 
have  nothing  but  a  miserable  piece  of  bark  of  a 
tree  ;  for  nourishment,  a  handful  or  two  of  corn, 
either  roasted  or  soaked  in  water,  which  seldom 
satisfies  our  hunger ;  and  after  all,  not  venturing 
to  perform  even  the  ceremonies  of  our  religion, 
without  being  considered  as   sorcerers."     Their 
\  success  among  the  natives,  however,  by  no  means 
equalled  their  exertions.     Pere  Lallamant  says : 
I  "  With  respect  to  adult  persons,  in  good  health, 
I  there  is  little  apparent  success  ;  on  the  contrarjr, 
j  there  have  been  nothing  but  storms  and  whirl- 
1  winds  from  that  quarter." 

Sebastian  Ralle  established  himself,  some  time 
about  the  year  1670,  at  Norridgewock,  where  he 
i  continued  more  than  forty  years.  He  was  ac 
cused,  and  perhaps  not  without  justice,  of  excit 
ing  his  praying  Indians  against  the  English,  whom 
he  looked  upon  as  the  enemies,  not  only  of  his 
king,  but  also  of  the  Catholic  religion.  He  was 
killed  by  the  English,  in  1724,  at  the  foot  of  the 
cross  which  his  own  hands  had  planted.  This 
Indian  church  was  broken  up,  and  its  members 
either  killed  outright  or  dispersed. 

In  a  letter  written  by  Ralle  to  his  nephew  he 
gives  the  following  account  of  his  church,  and 
his  own  labors  :  "  A*ll  my  converts  repair  to  the 
!  church  regularly  twice  every  clay ;  first,  very 
early  in  the  morning,  to  attend  mass,  and  again 
in  the  evening,  to  assist  in  the  prayers  at  sunset. 
As  it  is  necessary  to  fix  the  imagination  of 
savages,  whose  attention  is  easily  distracted,  I 
have  composed  prayers,  calculated  to  inspire  them 
with  just  sentiments  of  the  august  sacrifice  of 
our  altars  :  they  chant,  or  at  least  recite  them 
aloud,  during  mass.  Besides  preaching  to  them 
on  Sundays  and  saints'  days,  1  seldom  let  a  work  - 
ing-day  pass,  without  making  a  concise  exhorta- 
|  tion,  for  the  purpose  of  inspiring  them  with 
i  horror  at  those  vices  to  which  they  are  most  ad 
dicted,  or  to  confirm  them  in  the  practice  of  some 
particular  virtue." — Vide  Lettres  Edijiante  set 
Cur.,  Vol.  VI.,  p.  127. 

NOTE  17,  page  18. 

The  character  of  Ralle  has  probably  never  been 
j  correctly   delineated.      By  his  brethren  of    the 
I  Romish  Church,  he  has  been  nearly  apotheosized. 
On  the  other  hand,  our  Puritan  historians  have 
represented  him  as  a  demon  in  human  form.     He 
was  undoubtedly  sincere  in  his  devotion  to   the 
interests  of  his  church,  and  not  over-scrupulous  as 
to  the  means  of  advancing  those  interests.    "  The 
'  French,"  says  the  author  of  the.History  of  Saco 
and  Biddeford,  "after  the  peace  of  1713,  secretly 
promised  to  supply  the  Indians  with  arms  and 
ammunition,  if    they  would    renew    hostilities. 


NOTES, 


287 


Their  principal  agent  was  the  cslebrated  Ralle,  i  says,  the  Indians  formerly  stored  and  concealed 
the  French  Jesuit." — p.  215.  their  corn. 


NOTE  18,  page  19. 

Hertel  de  Rouville  was  an  active  and  unsparing 
enemy  of  the  English.  He  was  the  leader  of  the 
combined  French  and  Indian  forces  which  de 
stroyed  Deerfield  and  massacred  its  inhabitants, 
in  1703.  He  was  afterwards  killed  in  the  attack 
upon  Haver  hill.  Tradition  says  that,  on  examin 
ing  his  dead  body,  his  head  and  face  were  found 
to  be  perfectly  smooth,  without  the  slightest  ap 
pearance  of  hair  or  beard. 

NOTE  19,  page  19. 

Cowesass  'f  —  tawJiich  wessasecn  ?  Are  you 
afraid  ? — why  fear  you  ? 

NOTE  20,  page  20. 

Winnepurkit,  otherwise  called  George,  Sachem 
of  Saugus,  married  a  daughter  of  Passaconaway, 
the  great  Pennacook  chieftain,  in  16(52.  The 
wedding  took  place  at  Pennacook  (now  Concord, 
N.  H.),  and  the  ceremonies  closed  with  a  great 
feast.  According  to  the  visages  of  the  chiefs, 
Passaconaway  ordered  a  select  mimber  of  his  men 
to  accompany  the  newly-married  couple  to  the 
dwelling  of  the  husband,  where  in  turn  there  was 
another  great  feast.  Some  time  after,  the  wife 
of  Winnepurkit  expressing  a  desire  to  visit  her 
father's  house,  was  permitted  to  go,  accompanied 
by  a  brave  escort  of  her  husband's  chief  men. 
But  when  she  wished  to  return,  her  father  sent  a 
messenger  to  Saugus,  informing  her  husband,  and 
asking  him  to  come  and  take  her  away.  He  re 
turned  for  answer  that  he  had  escorted  his  wife 
to  her  father's  house  in  a  style  that  became  a 
chief,  and  that  now,  if  she  wished  to  return,  her 
father  must  send  her  back  in  the  same  way.  This 
Passaconaway  refused  to  do,  and  it  is  said  that 
here  terminated  the  connection  of  his  daughter 
with  the  Saugus  chief. —  Vide  Morton's  New 
Canaan. 

NOTE  21,  page  22. 

This  was  the  name  which  the  Indians  of  New 
England  gave  to  two  or  three  of  their  principal 
chiefs,  to  whom  all  their  inferior  sagamores 
acknowledged  allegiance.  Passaconaway  seems  to 
have  been  one  of  these  chiefs.  His  residence  was 
at  Pennacook.  (Mass.  Hist.  Coll.,  Vol.  III.,  pp. 
21,  22.)  u  He  was  regarded,"  says  Hubbard,  uas 
a  g  eat  sorcerer,  and  his  fame  was  widely  spread. 
It  was  said  of  him  that  he  could  cause  a  green 
leaf  to  grow  in  winter,  trees  to  dance,  water  to 
burn,  &c.  He  was,  undoubtedly,  one  of  those 
shrewd  and  powerful  men  whose  achievements 
are  always  regarded  by  a  barbarous  people  as  the 
result  of  supernatural  aid.  The  Indians  gave  to 
such  the  names  of  Powahsor  Panisees." 

"The  Panisees  are  men  of  great  courage  and 
wisdom,  and  to  these  the  Devill  appeareth  more 
familiarly  than  to  others." —  Winston? s  Relation. 

NOTE  22,  page  23. 

" The  Indians," says  Roger  Williams,  "have  a 
god  whom  they  call  Wetuomanit,  who  presides 
over  the  household." 

NOTE  23,  page  24. 

There  are  rocks  in  the  river  at  the  Falls  of 
Amoskeag,  in  the  cavities  of  which,  tradition 


The 
&*. 


NOTE  24,  page  25. 
Spring  God. — See  Roger  Williams1  s  Key, 


-See  Roger 


NOTE  25,  page  2G. 

"  Mat  wonck  kunna-monee."  We  shall  see  theo 
or  her  no  more. —  Vide  Roger  Williams' s  Key  to 
the  Indian  Language. 

NOTE  26,  page  26. 

"The  Great  South  West  God.' 
Williams' s  Observations,  &c. 

NOTE  27,  page  27. 

The  celebrated  Captain  Smith,  after  resigning 
the  government  of  the  Colony  in  Virginia,  in  his 
capacity  of  "  Admiral  of  New  England,"  made  a 
careful  survey  of  the  coast  from  Penobscct  to 
Cape  Cod,  in  the  summer  of  1614. 

NOTE  28,  page  27. 

Lake  Winnipiseogee, — The  Smile  of  the  Great 
Spirit, — the  source  of  one  of  the  branches  of  the 
Merrimack. 

NOTE  29,  page  27. 

Captain  Smith  gave  to  the  promontory,  now 
called  Cape  Ann,  the  name  of  Tragabizanda,  in 
memory  of  his  young  and  beautiful  mistress  of 
that  name,  who,  while  he  was  a  captive  at  Con 
stantinople,  like  Desdemona,  "loved  him  for  the 
dangers  he  had  passed." 

NOTE  30,  page  27. 

Some  three  or  four  years  since,  a  fragment  If  a 
statue,  rudely  chiselled  from  dark  gray  stone,  was 
found  in  the  town  of  Bradford,  on  the  Merrimack. 
Its  origin  must  be  left  entirely  to  conjecture. 
The  fact  that  the  ancient  Northmen  visited  New 
England,  some  centuries  before  the  discoveries  of 
Columbus,  is  now  very  generally  admitted. 

NOTE  31,  page  34. 

De  Soto,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  penetrated 
into  the  wilds  of  the  new  world  in  search  of  gold 
and  the  fountain  of  perpetual  youth. 

NOTE  32,  page  38. 

TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE,  the  black  chieftain 
of  Hayti,  was  a  slave  on  the  plantation  "de 
Libertas,"  belonging  to  M.  BAYOU.  When  the 
rising  of  the  negroes  took  place,  in  1791,  TOUS 
SAINT  refused  to  join  them  until  he  had  aided  M. 
BAYOU  and  his  family  to  escape  to  Baltimore. 
The  white  man  had  discovered  in  Toussaint  many 
noble  qualities,  and  had  instructed  him  in  some 
of  the  first  branches  of  education  ;  and  the  preser 
vation  of  his  life  was  owing  to  the  negro's  grtti- 
tude  for  this  kindness. 

In  \  797,  Toussaint  L'Ouverture  was  appointed, 
by  the  French  government,  General-in-Chief  of 
the  armies  of  St.  Domingo,  and,  as  such,  signed 
the  Convention  with  General  Maitland  for  the 
evacuation  of  the  island  by  the  British.  From 
this  period,  until  1801,  the  island,  under  the 
government  of  Toussaint,  was  happy,  tranquil, 
and  prosperous.  The  miserable  attempt  of 


238 


NOTES. 


Napoleon  to  re-establish  slavery  in  St.  Domingo, 
although  it  failed  of  its  intended  object,  proved 
fatal  to  the  negro  chieftain.  Treacherously 
seized  by  Leclerc,  lie  was  hurried  on  board  a  vessel 
by  night,  and  conveyed  to  France,  where  he  was 
confined  in  a  cold  subterranean  dungeon,  at 
Besancon,  where,  in  April,  1803,  he  died.  The 
treatment  of  Toussaint  finds  a  parallel  only  in 
the  murder  of  the  Duke  D'Enghien.  It  was  the 
remark  of  Godwin,  in  his  Lectures,  that  the  West 
India  Islands,  since  their  first  discovery  by  Colum 
bus,  could  not  boast  of  a  single  name  which 
deserves  comparison  with  that  of  Toussaint 
L'Ouverture. 

NOTE  83,  page  39. 

The  reader  may,  perhaps,  call  to  mind  the  beau 
tiful  sonnet  of  William  Wordsworth,  addressed  to 
Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  during  his  confinement  in 
France. 

"  Toussaint !— thou  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! 

Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tends  his  plough. 

Within  thy  hearing,  or  thou  liest  now 
Buried  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den ; 
O  miserable  chieftain  ! — where  and  when 

Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?  —Yet,  die  not,  do  thou 

Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow ; 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  behind 

Powers  that  will  work  for  thee ;   air,   earth,   and 

skies, — 
There 's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 

That  will  forget  thee  :  thou  hast  great  allies. 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 

And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind." 


NOTE  34,  page  39. 

The  French  ship  LE  RODEUR,  with  a  crew  of 
twenty-two  men,  and  with  one  hundred  and  sixty 
negro  slaves,  sailed  from  Bonny,  in  Africa,  April, 
1819.  On  approaching  the  line,  a  terrible  malady 
broke  out, — an  obstinate  disease  of  the  eyes, — 
contagious,  and  altogether  beyond  the  resources 
of  medicine.  It  was  aggravated  by  the  scarcity 
of  water  among  the  slaves  (only  half  a  wineglass 
per  day  being  allowed  to  an  individual),  and  by 
the  extreme  impurity  of  the  air  in  which  they 
breathed.  By  the  advice  of  the  physician,  they 
were  brought  upon  deck  occasionally ;  but  some 
of  the  poor  wretches,  locking  themselves  in  each 
other's  arms,  leaped  overboard,  in  the  hope,  which 
so  universally  prevails  among  them,  of  being  swift 
ly  transported  to  their  own  homes  in  Africa.  To 
check  this,  the  captain  ordered  several  who  were 
stopped  in  the  attempt  to  be  shot,  or  hanged,  be 
fore  their  companions.  The  disease  extended  to 
the  crew ;  and  one  after  another  were  smitten  with 
it,  until  only  one  remained  unaffected.  Yet  even 
this  dreadful  condition  did  not  preclude  calcula 
tion  :  to  save  the  expense  of  supporting  slaves  ren 
dered  unsalable,  and  to  obtain  grounds  for  a  claim 
against  the  underwriters,  thirty-six  of  the  ne 
groes,  haviiijj  become  blind,  were  thrown  into  the 
tea  and  drowned  ! 

In  the  midst  of  their  dreadful  fears  lest  the  soli 
tary  individual,  whose  sight  remained  unaffected, 
should  also  be  seized  with  the  malady,  a  sail  was 
discovered.  It  was  the  Spanish  slaver,  Leon. 
The  same  disease  had  been  there  ;  and,  horrible  to 
tall,  all  the  crew  had  become  blind  !  Unable  to 
assist  each  other,  the  vessels  parted.  The  Span 
ish  ship  has  never  since  been  heard  of.  The 
Rodeur  reached  Guadaloupe  on  the  21st  of  June  ; 
the  only  man  who  had  escaped  the  disease,  and 
had  thus  been  enabled  to  steer  the  slaver  into 
port,  caught  it  in  three  days  after  its  arrival. — 
Spe ech  of  M.  'Benjamin  Constant,  in  the  French 
Chamber  of  Deputies,  June  17,  1820. 


NOTE  35,  page  52. 

The  Northern  author  of  the  Congressional  rule 
against  receiving  petitions  of  the  people  on  the 
subject  of  Slavery. 

NOTE  36,  page  59. 

Dr.  Thacher,  surgeon  in  Scammel's  regiment, 
in  his  description  of  the  siege  of  Yorktown,  says  : 
|  u  The  labor  on  the  Virginia  plantations  is 
performed  altogether  by  a  species  of  the  human 
race  cruelly  wrested  from  their  native  country, 
and  doomed  to  perpetual  bondage,  while  the'ir 
masters  are  manfully  contending  for  freedom  and 
the  natural  rights  of  man.  Such  is  the  inconsis 
tency  of  human  nature."  Eighteen  hundred 
slaves  were  found  at  Yorktown,  after  its  surren 
der,  and  restored  to  their  masters.  Well  was  it 
said  by  Dr.  Barnes,  in  his  late  work  on  Slavery  : 
I  "  No  slave  was  any  nearer  his  freedom  after  the 
|  surrender  of  Yorktown  than  when  Patrick  Henry 
first  taught  the  notes  of  liberty  to  echo  among  the 
hills  and  vales  of  Virginia." 

NOTE  37,  page  62. 

The  rights   and  liberties  affirmed  by  MAGNA 
CHAKTA  were  deemed  of  such  importance,  in  the 
thirteenth    century,    that   the   Bishops,   twice  a 
year,  with  tapers  burning,  and  in  their  pontifical 
robes,  pronounced,  in  the  presence  of  the  king 
and  the  representatives  of  the  estates  of  England, 
the    greater    excommunication   against    the    in- 
fringer  of  that  instrument.     The  imposing  cere 
mony  took  place  in  the  great  Hall  of  Westmins- 
I  ter.     A  copy  of  the  curse,  as  pronounced  in  1 253, 
!  declares  that,  u  by  the  authority  of  Almighty  God, 
!  and  the  blessed  Apostles  and  Martyrs,  and  all  the 
saints  in  heaven,  all  those  who  violate  the  Eng 
lish  liberties,   and  secretly  or   openly,    by   deed, 
word,  or  counsel,   do  make   statutes,  or  observe 
|  them  being  made,  against  said  liberties,   are  ac- 
|  cursed  and   sequestered    from  the  company    of 
heaven  and  the  sacraments  of  the  Holy  Church. " 
WILLIAM  PENN,  in  his  admirable  political  pam 
phlet,  "England's  Present  Interest  considered," 
alluding  to  the  curse  of  the  Charter-breakers,  says, 
"  I  am  no  Roman  Catholic,  and  little  value  their 
other   curses  ;  yet   I  declare  I  would  not  for  the 
world  incur  this  curse,  as  every  man  deservedly 
doth,    who    offers  violence  to    the    fundamental 
freedom  thereby  repeated  and  confirmed." 

NOTE  38,  page  73. 

"The  manner  in  which  the  Waldenses  and 
heretics  disseminated  their  principles  among  the 
Catholic  gentry,  was  by  carrying  with  them  a  box 
of  trinkets,  or  articles  of  dress.  Having  entered 
the  houses  of  the  gentry,  and  disposed  of  some  of 
their  goods,  they  cautiously  intimated  that  they 
had  commodities  far  more  valuable  than  these, — 
inestimable  jewels,  which  they  would  show  if 
they  could  be  protected  from  the  clergy.  They 
would  then  give  their  purchasers  a  Bible  or 
Testament ;  and  thereby  many  were  deluded  into 
heresy." — It.  Saccho. 

NOTE  39,  page  83. 

Chalkley  Hall,  near  Frankford,  Pa.,  the  resi 
dence  of  THOMAS  CHALKLEY,  an  eminent  min 
ister  of  the  Friends'  denomination.  He  was  one 
of  the  early  settlers  of  the  Colony,  and  his 
Journal,  which  was  published  in  1749,  presents  a 
qr  -int  but  beautiful  picture  of  a  life  of  unosten 
tatious  and  simple  goodness.  He  was  the  master 
of  a  merchant  vessel,  and,  in  his  visits  to  the  West 
Indies  and  Great  Britain,  omitted  no  opportunity 


NOTES. 


280 


to  labor  for  the  highest  interests  of  his  fellow-men. 
During  a  temporary  cesidence  in  Philadelphia,  in 
the  summer  of  Ib38,  the  quiet  and  beautiful 
scenery  around  the  ancient  village  of  Frankford 
frequently  attracted  me  from  the  heat  and  bustle 
of  the  city. 


NOTE  40,  page  85. 


August.  Soliloq.  cap.  xxxi. 
ram,"  &c. 


Interrogavi  Ter- 


NOTE  41,  page  87. 

For  the  idea  of  this  line,  I  am  indebted  to 
Emerson,  in  his  inimitable  sonnet  to  the  Rho- 
dora,  — 

'•  If  eyes  were  made  for  seeing. 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being." 

NOTE  42,  page  95. 

Among  the  earliest  converts  to  the  doctrines  of 
Friends  in  Scotland  was  Barclay  of  Ury,  an  old 
and  distinguished  soldier,  who  had  fought  under 
Gustavus  Adolphus,  in  Germany.  As  a  Quaker, 
he  became  the  object  of  persecution  and  abuse  at 
the  hands  of  the  magistrates  and  the  populace. 
None  bore  the  indignities  of  the  mob  with  greater 
patience  and  nobleness  of  soul  than  this  once 
proud  gentleman  and  soldier.  One  of  his  friends, 
on  an  occasion  of  uncommon  rudeness,  lamented 
that  he  should  be  treated  so  harshly  in  his  old  age 
who  had  been  so  honored  before.  "I  find  more 
satisfaction,"  said  Barclay,  "  as  well  as  honor,  in 
being  thus  insulted  for  my  religious  principles, 
than  when,  a  few  years  ago,  it  was  usual  for  the 
magistrates,  as  I  passed  the  city  of  Aberdeen,  to 
meet  me  on  the  road  and  conduct  me  to  public 
entertainment  in  their  hall,  and  then  escort  me 
out  again,  to  gain  my  favor." 

NOTE  43,  page  101. 

Lucy  Hooper  died  at  Brooklyn,  L.  I.,  on  the  1st 
of  8th  mo.,  1841,  aged  24  years. 

NOTE  44,  page  102. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Dr.  Channing  was  in  the 
summer  of  1841,  when,  in  company  with  my  Eng 
lish  friend,  Joseph  Sturge,  so  well  known  for  his 
philanthropic  labors  and  liberal  political  opinions, 
I  visited  him  in  his  summer  residence  in  Rhode 
Island.  In  recalling  the  impressions  of  that  visit, 
it  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  eay,  that  I  have  no 
reference  to  the  peculiar  religious  opinions  of  a 
man  whose  life,  beautifully  and  truly  manifested 
above  the  atmosphere  of  sect,  is  now  the  world's 
common  legacy. 

NOTE  45,  page  104. 

44  O  vine  of  Sibmah !  I  will  weep  for  thee  with 
the  weeping  of  Jazer  !" —  Jeremiah  xlviii.  32. 

NOTE  46,  page  106. 

Sophia  Sturge,  sister  of  Joseph  Sturge,  of  Bir 
mingham,  the  President  of  the  British  Complete 
Suffrage  Association,  died  in  the  6th  month,  1845. 
She  was  the  colleague,  counsellor,  and  ever-ready 
helpmate  of  her  brother  in  all  his  vast  designs  of 
beneficence.  The  Birmingham  Pilot  says  of  her  : 
"Never,  perhaps,  were  theactive  and  passive  viiv 
tues  of  the  human  character  more  harmoniously, 
and  beautifully  blended  than  in  this  excellent 
woman." 

19 


NOTE  47,  page  107. 

Winnipiseogee  :  "  Smile  of  the  Great  Spirit." 
NOTE  48,  page  109. 

This  legend  is  the  subject  of  a  celebrated  pic 
ture  by  Tintoretto,  of  which  Mr.  Rogers  pos 
sesses  the  original  sketch.  The  slave  lies  on 
the  ground,  amid  a  crowd  of  spectators,  who  look 
on,  animated  by  all  the  various  emotions  of  sym 
pathy,  rage,  terror  ;  a  woman,  in  front,  with  a 
i  child  in  her  arms,  has  always  been  admired  for 
the  lifelike  vivacity  of  her  attitude  and  expres 
sion.  The  executioner  holds  up  the  broken  imple 
ments  ;  St.  Mark,  with  a  headlong  movement, 
,  seems  to  rush  down  from  heaven  in  haste  to  save 
I  his  worshipper.  The  dramatic  grouping  in  this 
picture  is  wonderful;  the  coloring,  in  its  gorgeous 
depth  and  harmony,  is,  in  Mr.Rogers's  sketch,  finer 
than  in  the  picture. — Mrs.  Jamieson's  Poetry  of 
/Sacred  and  Legendary  Art.  Vol.  I.,  p.  121. 

NOTE  49,  page  110. 

Pennant,  in  his  "Voyage  to  the  Hebrides,"  de 
scribes  the  holy  well  of  Loch  Maree,  the  waters 
of  which  were  supposed  to  effect  a  miraculous 
cure  of  melancholy,  trouble,  and  insanity. 

NOTE  50,  page  111. 

The  writer  of  these  lines  is  no  enemy  of  Catho 
lics.  He  has,  on  more  than  one  occasion,  exposed 
himself  to  the  censures  of  his  Protestant  brethren, 
by  his  strenuous  endeavors  to  procure  indemnifi 
cation  for  the  owners  of  the  convent  destroyed 
near  Boston.  He  defended  the  cause  of  the 
Irish  patriots  long  before  it  had  become  popular 
in  this  country ;  and  he  was  one  of  the  first  to 
urge  the  most  liberal  aid  to  the  suffering  and 
starving  population  of  the  Catholic  island.  The 
severity  of  his  language  finds  its  ample  apology 
in  the  reluctant  confession  of  one  of  the  most 
eminent  Romish  priests,  the  eloquent  and  devoted 
Father  Ventura. 

NOTE  51,  page  111. 

Ebenezer  Elliott,  the  intelligence  of  whose  death 
has  recently  reached  us,  was,  to  the  artisans  of 
England,  what  Burns  was  to  the  peasantry  of 
Scotland.  His  "  Corn  -law  Rhymes  "  contributed 
not  a  little  to  that  overwhelming  tide  of  popular 
opinion  and  feeling  which  resulted  in  the  repeal 
of  the  tax  on  bread.  Well  has  the  eloquent 
author  of  4 '  The  Reforms  and  Reformers  of  Great 
Britain "  said  of  him,  "Not  corn-law  repealers 
alone,  but  all  Britons  who  moisten  their  scanty 
bread  with  the  sweat  of  the  brow,  are  largely  in 
debted  to  his  inspiring  lay,  for  the  mighty  bound 
which  the  laboring  mind  of  England  has  taken  in 
our  day." 

NOTE  52,  page  112. 


The  reader  of  the  Biography  of  the  late  William 
Allen,  the  philanthropic  associate  of  Clarkson  and 
Romilly,  cannot  fail  to  admire  his  simple  and 
beautiful  record  of  a  tour  through  Europe,  in  the 
years  1818  and  1819,  in  the  company  of  his  Ameri 
can  friend,  Stephen  Grellett. 

NOTE  53,  page  116. 

"  Thou  'mind'st  me  of  a  story  told 
In  rare  Bernardin's  leaves  of  gold." 

The  incident  here   referred  to  is  related  in  a 


200 


NOTES. 


note  to  Bernardin  Henri  Saint  Pierre's  Etudes  de 
la  Nature. 

*'  We  arrived  at  the  habitation  of  the  Hermits 
a  little  before  they  sat  down  to  their  table,  and 
while  they  were  still  at  church.  J.  J.  Rousseau 
proposed  to  me  to  offer  up  our  devotions.  The 
hermits  were  reciting  the  Litanies  of  Providence, 
which  are  remarkably  beautiful.  After  we  had 
addressed  our  prayers  to  God,  and  the  hermits 
were  proceeding  to  the  refectory,  Rousseau  said 
to  me,  with  his  heart  overflowing,  '  At  this  mo 
ment  I  experience  what  is  said  in  the  gospel : 
Where  two  or  three  are  gathered  together  in  my 
name,  there  am  I  in  the  midst  of  them.  There  is 
here  a  feeling  of  peace  and  happiness  which  pene 
trates  the  soul. '  I  said,  '  If  Fenelon  had  lived, 
you  would  have  been  a  Catholic.'  He  exclaimed, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  '  O,  if  Fenelon  were  alive, 
I  would  struggle  to  get  into  his  service,  even  as  a 
lackey ! ' " 

In  my  sketch  of  Saint  Pierre,  it  will  be  seen 
that  I  have  somewhata  ntedated  the  period  of  his 
old  age.  At  that  time  he  was  not  probably  more 
than  fifty.  In  describing  him,  I  have  by  no  means 
exaggerated  his  own  history  of  his  mental 
condition  at  the  period  of  the  story.  In  the  frag 
mentary  Sequel  to  his  Studies  of  Nature,  he  thus 
speaks  of  himself :  "  The  ingratitude  of  those  of 
whom  I  had  deserved  kindness,  unexpected  family 
misfortunes,  the  total  loss  of  my  small  patrimony 
through  enterprises  solely  undertaken  for  the 
benefit  of  my  country,  the  debts  under  which  I 
lay  oppressed,  the  blasting  of  all  my  hopes, — these 
combined  calamities  made  dreadful  inroads  upon 
my  health  and  reason I  found  it  im 
possible  to  continue  in  a  room  where  there  was 
company,  especially  if  the  doors  were  shut.  I 
could  not  even  cross  an  alley  in  a  publie  garden, 
if  several  persons  had  got  together  in  it.  When 
alone,  my  malady  subsided.  I  felt  myself  like 
wise  at  ease  in  places  where  I  saw  children  only. 
At  the  sight  of  any  one  walking  up  to  the  place 
where  I  was,  I  felt  my  whole  frame  agitated,  and 
retired.  I  often  said  to  myself,  l  My  sole  study 
has  been  to  merit  well  of  mankind ;  why  do  I  fear 
them  ? ' " 

He  attributes  his  improved  health  of  mind  and 
body  to  the  counsels  of  his  friend,  J.  J.  Rousseau. 
"  I  renounced,"  says  he,  "my  books.  I  threw  my 
eyes  upon  the  works  of  nature,  which  spake  to 
all  my  senses  a  language  which  neither  time  nor 
nations  have  it  in  their  power  to  alter.  Thence 
forth  my  histories  and  my  journals  were  the 
herbage  of  the  fields  and  meadows.  My  thoughts 
did  not  go  forth  painfully  after  them,  as  in  the 
case  of  human  systems  ;  but  their  thoughts,  under 
a  thousand  engaging  forms,  quietly  sought  me. 
In  these  I  studied,  without  effort,  the  laws  of  that 
Universal  Wisdom  which  had  surrounded  me  from 
the  cradle,  but  on  which  heretofore  I  had  bestowed 
little  attention." 

Speaking  of  Rousseau,  he  says  :  "I  derived  in 
expressible  satisfaction  from  his  society.  What 
I  prized  still  more  than  his  genius,  was  his  probity. 
He  was  one  of  the  few  literary  characters,  tried 
in  the  furnace  of  affliction,  to  whom  you  could, 
with  perfect  security,  confide  your  most  secret 
thoughts.  ....  Even  when  he  deviated,  and 
became  the  victim  of  himself  or  of  others,  he 
could  forget  his  own  misery  in  devotion  to  the  wel 
fare  of  mankind.  He  was  uniformly  the  advocate 
of  the  miserable.  There  might  be  inscribed  on 
his  tomb  these  affecting  words  from  that  Book  of 
which  he  carried  always  about  him  some  select 
passages,  during  the  last  years  of  his  life :  His 
sms,  which  are  many,  are  forgiven,  for  he  loved 
much. " 

NOTE  54,  page  117. 

"  Like  that  the  gray-haired  sea-king  passed." 


Dr.  Hooker,  who  accompanied  Sir  James  Ross  in 
j  his  expedition  of  1841,  thus  describes  the  appeal 
ance  of  that  unknown  land  of  frost  and  fire  which 
j  was  seen    in  latitude  77°    south, —  a  stupendous 
chain  of  mountains,  the  whole  mass  of  which,  from 
its  highest  point  to  the  ocean,  was   covered  with 
j  everlasting  snow  and  ice  : — 

"  The  water  and  the  sky  were  both  as  blue,  or 
rather  more  intensely  blue,  than  I  have  ever  seen 
I  them  in  the  tropics,  and  all  the  coast  was  one  mass 
j  of  dazzlingly   beautiful   peaks   of   snow,    which, 
j  when  the  sun  approached  the  horizon,   reflected 
I  the  most  brilliant  tints  of  golden  yellow  and  scar- 
i  let;  and  then,  to  see  the  dark  cloud  of  smoke, 
tinged  with   flame,  rising  from  the  volcano  in  a 
perfect;  unbroken  column,  one  side  jet  black,  the 
other  giving  back  the  colors  of  the  sun,  sometimes 
turning  oft'  at  a  right  angle  by  some  current  of 
wind,    and  stretching    many  miles  to   leeward  ! 
This  was  a  sight  so  surpassing  everything  that 
can  be  imagined,  and  so   heightened  by  the  con 
sciousness    that  we    had    penetrated,  under   the 
guidance   of    our    commander,    into  regions  far 
beyond  what  was  ever  deemed  practicable,  that 
it  caused  a  feeling  of  awe  to  steal  over  us  at  the 
consideration  of  our  own  comparative  insignifi 
cance  and  helplessness,  and  at  the  same  time  an 
indescribable  feeling  of  the  greatness  of  the  Cre 
ator  in  the  works  of  his  hand." 

NOTE  55,  page  121. 

The  election  of  Charles  Sumner  to  the  U.  S. 
Senate  "followed  hard  upon " the  rendition  of  the 
fugitive  Sims  by  the  U.  S.  officials  and  the  armed 
police  of  Boston. 

NOTE  56,  page  123. 

The  storming  of  the  city  of  Derne,  in  1805,  by 
General  Eaton,  at  the  head  of  nine  Americans, 
forty  Greeks,  and  a  motley  array  of  Turks  and 
Arabs,  was  one  of  those  feats  of  hardihood  and 
daring  which  have  in  all  ages  attracted  the  admi 
ration  of  the  multitude.  The  higher  and  holier 
heroism  of  Christian  self-denial  and  sacrifice,  in 
the  humble  walks  of  private  duty,  is  seldom  so 
well  appreciated. 

NOTE  57,  page  125. 

It  is  proper  to  say  that  these  lines  are  the  joint 
impromptus  of  my  sister  and  myself.  They  are 
inserted  here  as  an  expression  of  our  admiration 
of  the  gifted  stranger  whom  we  have  since  learned 
to  love  as  a  friend. 

NOTE  58,  page  128. 

This  ballad  was  originally  published  in  a  prose 
work  of  the  authors,  as  the  song  of  a  wandering 
Milesian  schoolmaster. 

In  the  seventeenth  century,  slavery  in  the  New 
World  was  by  no  means  confined  to  the  natives  of 
Africa.  Political  offenders  and  criminals  were 
transported  by  the  British  government  to  the 
plantations  of  Barbadces  and  Virginia,  where 
they  were  sold  like  cattle  in  the  market.  Kid 
napping  of  free  and  innocent  white  persons  was 
I  practised  to  a  considerable  extent  in  the  seaports 
of  the  United  Kingdom. 

NOTE  59,  page  129. 

It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say  that  ^ there 
are  elements  in  the  character  and  passages  in  the 
history  of  the  great  Hungarian  statesman  and 
orator,  which  necessarily  command  the  admiration 
of  those,  even,  who  believe  that  no  political  revo 
lution  was  ever  worth  the  price  of  human  blood. 


NOTES. 


291 


NOTE  60,  page  131. 
"  Homilies  from  Oldbug  hear." 

Dr.  w — ,  author  of  "The  Puritan,"  under 
the  name  of  Jonathan  Oldbug. 

NOTE  61,  page  138. 

William  Forster,  of  Norwich,  England,  died  in 
East  Tennessee,  in  the  1st  month,  1854,  while  en 
gaged  in  presenting  to  the  governors  of  the  States 
of  this  Union  the  address  of  his  religious  society 
on  the  evils  of  slavery.  He  was  the  relative  and 
coadjutor  of  the  Buxtons,  Gurneys,  and  Frys  ;  and 
his  whole  life,  extending  almost  to  threescore  and 
ten  years,  was  a  pure  and  beautiful  example  of 
Christian  benevolence.  He  had  travelled  over 
Europe,  and  visited  most  of  its  sovereigns,  to 
plead  against  the  slave-trade  and  slavery  ;  and  had 
twice  before  made  visits  to  this  country,  under 
impressions  of  religious  duty. 

NOTE  62,  page  139. 

No  more  fitting  inscription  could  be  placed  on 
the  tombstone  of  Robert  Rantoul  than  this :  "  He 
died  at  his  post  in  Congress,  and  his  last  words 
were  a  protest  in  the  name  of  Democracy  against 
the  Fugitive-Slave  Law." 

NOTE  63,  page  146. 

"Sebdh,  Oasis  of  Fezzan,  10th  March,  1846.— 
This  evening  the  female  slaves  were  unusually 
excited  in  singing,  and  I  had  the  curiosity  to  ask 
my  negro  servant,  Said,  what  they  were  singing 
about.  As  many  of  them  were  natives  of  his  own 
country,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  translating  the 
Mandara  or  Bornou  language.  1  had  often  asked 
the  Moors  to  translate  their  songs  for  me,  but 
got  no  satisfactory  account  from  them.  Said  at 
first  said,  '  O,they  sing  of  Rubee  '  (God).  'What 
do  you  mean  V  '  I  replied,  impatiently.  '  O  don't 
you  know  ?  '  he  continued, '  they  asked  God  to  give 
them  their  Atka  ? '  (  certificate  of  freedom. )  I  in 
quired,  '  Is  that  all  ? '  Said  :  '  No  ;  they  say, 
"Where  are  we  going?  The  world  is  large.  O 
God.'  Where  are  we  going  ?  0  God  /  " '  I  inquir 
ed,  '  What  else  ?  '  Said  :  '  They  remember  their 
country,  Bornou,  and  say,  "  Bornou  was  a  pleas 
ant  country,  full  of  all  good  things  ;  but  this  is  a 
bad  country,  and  we  are  miserable  !  "  '  Do  they 
say  anything  else  ?  '  Said  :  'No  ;  they  repeat  these 
words  over  and  over  again,  and  add,  "O  God! 
give  us  our  Atka,  and  let  us  return  again  to  our 
dear  home."'' 

4 '  I  am  not  surprised  I  got  little  satisfaction 
when  I  asked  the  Moors  about  the  songs  of  their 
slaves.  Who  will  say  that  the  above  words  are 
not  a  very  appropriate  song  ?  What  could  have 
been  more  congenially  adapted  to  their  then  wof  ul 
condition  ?  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  these 
poor  bondwomen  cheer  up  their  hearts,  in  their 
long,  lonely,  and  painful  wanderings  over  the  des 
ert,  with  words  and  sentiments  like  these  ;  but  1 
have  often  observed  that  their  fatigue  and  suffer 
ings  were  too  great  for  them  to  strike  up  this 
melancholy  dirge,  and  many  days  their  plain 
tive  strains  never  broke  over  the  silence  of  the 
desert. " — Richardson's  Journal. 

NOTE  64,  page  147. 

One  of  the  latest  and  most  interesting  items  of 
Eastern  news  is  the  statement  that  Slavery  has 
been  formally  and  totally  abolished  in  Egypt. 

NOTE  65,  page  158. 

A  letter  from  England,  in  the  Friends'1  Review, 
says  :  k'  Joseph  Sturge,  with  a  companion, 


Thomas  Harvey,  has  been  visiting  the  shores 
of  Finland,  to  ascertain  the  amount  of  mischief 
and  loss  to  poor  and  peaceable  sufferers,  occa 
sioned  by  the  gunboats  of  the  Allied  squadrons 
in  the  late  war,  with  a  view  to  obtaining  relief 
for  them. " 

NOTE  66,  page  167. 

A  remarkable  custom,  brought  from  the  Old 
Country,  formerly  prevailed  in  the  rural  districts 
of  New  England.  On  the  death  of  a  member  of 
the  family,  the  bees  were  at  once  informed  of  the 
event,  and  their  hives  dressed  in  mourning.  This 

|  ceremonial  was  supposed  to  be  necessary  to  pre 
vent  the  swarms  from  leaving  their  hives  and 

i  seeking  a  new  home. 

NOTE  67,  page  174. 

"  Too  late  I  loved  Thee,  O  Beauty  of  ancient 
days,  yet  ever  new  !    And  lo  !     Thou  wert  with 
in,  and  I  abroad  searching  for  thee.     Thou  wert 
!  with  me,    but  I  was  not  with  thee."  — August, 
tioliloq.,  Book  X. 
j 

NOTE  68,  page  174. 

"And  I  saw  that  there  was  an  Ocean  of  Dark 
ness  and  Death  :  but  an  infinite  Ocean  of  Light 
and  Love  flowed  over  the  Ocean  of  Darkness  : 
And  in  that  I  saw  the  infinite  Love  of  God."  — 
George  Fox's  Journal. 

NOTE  69,  page  179. 

The  massacre  of  unarmed  and  unoffending  men, 
in  Southern  Kansas,  took  place  near  the  Marias 
du  Cygne  of  the  French  voyageurs. 

NOTE  70,  page  186. 

Read  at  the  Friends'  School  Anniversary, 
Providence,  R.  L,  6th  mo.,  1860. 

NOTE  71,  page  192. 

See    English  caricatures  of   America  :    Slave- 
|  holder  and  cowhide,  with  the  motto,    "  Haven't 
I  a  right  to  wallop  my  nigger  ?  " 

NOTE  72,  page  194. 

It  is  recorded  that  the  Chians,  when  subjugated 
by  Mithridates  of  Cappadocia,  were  delivered  up 
to  their  own  slaves,  to  be  carried  away  captive  to 
Colchis.  Athenaeus  considers  this  a  just  punish- 
I  ment  for  their  wickedness  in  first  introducing 
the  slave-trade  into  Greece.  From  this  ancient 
villany  of  the  Chians  the  proverb  arose,  "The 
Chian  hath  bought  himself  a  master. " 

NOTE  73,  page  197. 

This  ballad  was  written  on  the  occasion  of  a 
Horticultural  Festival.  Cobbler  Keezar  was  a 
noted  character  among  the  first  settlers  in  the 
valley  of  the  Merrimack. 

NOTE  74,  page  206. 

Lieutenant  Herndon's  Report  of  the  Explora 
tion  of  the  Amazon  has  a  striking  description  of 
the  peculiar  and  melancholy  notes  of  a  bird  heard 
by  night  on  the  shores  of  the  river.  The  Indian 
guides  called  it  "  The  Cry  of  a  Lost  Soul  "  ! 

NOTE  75,  page  259. 

Eleonora  Johanna  Von  Merlau,  or,  as  Sjwall 
the  Quaker  Historian  gives  it,  Von  Merlane,  a  no- 


293 


NOTES. 


ble  young  lady  of  Frankfort,  seems  to  have  held 
among  the  Mystics  of  that  city  very  much  such  a 
position  as  Annia  Maria  Schurmaus  did  among 
the  Labadists  of  Holland.  William  Penn  ap 
pears  to  have  shared  the  admiration  of  her/ own 
immediate  circle  for  this  accomplished  and  gifted 
lady. 

NOTE  76,  page  260. 

Magister  Johann  Kelpius,  a  graduate  of  the 
University  of  Helmstadt,  came  to  Pennsylvania, 
in  1694,  with  a  company  of  German  Mystics. 
They  made  their  home  in  the  woods  on  the  Wis- 
sahickon,  a  little  west  of  the  Quaker  settlement  of 
Germantown.  Kelpius  was  a  believer  in  the  near 
approach  of  the  Millennium,  and  was  a  devout 
student  of  the  Book  of  Revelation,  and  the  Mor- 
yen-Rothe  of  Jacob  Behman.  He  called  his  settle 
ment  "  The  Woman  in  the  Wilderness  "  (Das 
Weib  in  der  Wueste).  He  was  only  twenty-four 
years  of  age  when  he  came  to  America,  but  his 
gravity,  learning,  and  devotion  placed  him  at  the 
head  of  the  settlement.  He  disliked  the  Quakers, 
because  he  thought  they  were  top  exclusive  in  the 
matter  of  ministers.  He  was,  like  most  of  the 
Mystics,  opposed  to  the  severe  doctrinal  views  of 
Calvin  and  even  Luther,  declaring  "  that  he 
could  as  little  agree  with  the  Danmamus  of  the 
Augsburg  Confession  as  with  the  Anathema  of 
the' Council  of  Trent." 

He  died  in  1704,  sitting  in  his  little  garden  sur 
rounded  by  his  grieving  disciples.  Previous  to 
his  death  it  is  said  that  he  cast  his  famous 
"Stone  of  Wisdom"  into  the  river,  where  that 
mystic  souvenir  of  the  times  of  Van  Helmont, 
Paracelsrfs,  and  Agrippa  has  lain  ever  since,  un 
disturbed. 

NOTE  77,  page  260. 

Peter  Sluyter,  or  Schluter,  a  native  of  Wesel, 
united  himself  with  the  sect  of  Labadists,  who 
believed  in  the  Divine  commission  of  John  De 
Labadie,  a  Roman  Catholic  priest  converted  to 
Protestantism,  enthusiastic,  eloquent,  and  evi 
dently  sincere  in  his  special  calling  and  election 
to  separate  the  true  and  living  members  of  the 
Church  of  Christ  from  the  formalism  and  hypoc 
risy  of  the  ruling  sects.  George  Keith  and 
Robert  Barclay  visited  him  at  Amsterdam,  and 
afterward  at  the  communities  of  Herford  and 
Wieward ;  and,  according  to  Gerard  Croes,  found 
him  so  near  to  them  on  some  points,  that  they  of 
fered  to  take  him  into  the  Society  of  Friends. 
This  offer,  if  it  was  really  made,  which  is  certain 
ly  doubtful,  was,  happily  for  the  Friends,  at  least, 
declined.  Invited  to  Herford  in  Westpha 
lia  by  Elizabeth,  daughter  of  the  Elector  Pala 
tine,  De  Labadie  and  his  followers  preached 
incessantly,  and  succeeded  in  arousing  a  wild  en 
thusiasm  among  the  people,  who  neglected 
their  business  and  gave  way  to  excitements  and 
strange  practices.  Men  and  women,  it  was  said, 
at  the  Communion  drank  and  danced  together, 
and  private  marriages,  or  spiritual  unions,  were 
formed.  Labadie  died  in  1674  at  Altona,  in  Den 
mark,  maintaining  his  testimonies  to  the  last. 
44  Nothing  remains  for  me,"  he  said,  4t  except  to 
go  to  my  God.  Death  is  merely  ascending  from 
a  lower  and  narrower  chamber  to  one  higher  and 
holier. " 

In  1679,  Peter  Sluyter  and  Jasper  Dankers 
were  sent  to  America  by  the  community  at  the 
Castle  of  Wieward.  Their  journal,  translated 
from  the  Dutch  and  edited  by  Henry  C.  Murphy, 
has  been  recently  published  by  the  Long  Island 
Historical  Society.  They  made  some  converts, 
and  among  them  was  the  eldest  son  of  Hermanns, 
the  proprietor  of  a  rich  tract  of  land  at  the  head 
uf  Chesapeake  Bay,  known  as  Bohemia  Manor. 


Sluyter  obtained  a  grant  of  this  tract,  and  estab 
lished  upon  it  a  community  numbering  at  one 
time  a  hundred  souls.  Very  contradictory  state 
ments  are  on  record  regarding  his  headship  of 
this  spiritual  family,  the  discipline  of  which 
seems  to  have  been  of  more  than  monastic  severi 
ty.  Certain  it  is  that  he  bought  and  sold  slaves, 
and  manifested  more  interest  in  the  world's  goods 
than  became  a  believer  in  the  near  Millennium. 
He  evinces  in  his  journal  an  overweening  spiritu 
al  pride,  and  speaks  contemptuously  of  other  pro 
fessors,  especially  the  Quakers  whom  he  met  in 
his  travels.  The  latter,  on  the  contrary,  seem  to 
have  looked  favorably  upon  the  Labadists,  and 
uniformly  speak  of  them  courteously  and  kindly. 
His  journal  shows  him  to  have  been  destitute  of 
common  gratitude  and  Christian  charity.  He 
threw  himself  upon  the  generous  hospitality  of  the 
Friends  wherever  he  went,  and  repaid  their  kind 
ness  by  the  coarsest  abuse  and  misrepresentation. 

NOTE  78,  page  261. 

Among  the  pioneer  Friends  were  many  men  of 
learning  and  broad  and  liberal  views.  Penn  was 
conversant  with  every  department  of  literature 
and  philosophy.  Thomas  Lloyd  was  a  ripe  and 
rare  scholar.  The  great  Loganian  Library  of 
Philadelphia  bears  witness  to  the  varied  learning 
and  classical  taste  of  its  donor,  James  Logan. 
Thomas  Story,  member  of  the  Council  of  State, 
Master  of  the  Rolls,  and  Commissioner  of  Claims 
under  William  Penn,  and  an  able  minister  of  his 
Society,  took  a  deep  interest  in  scientific  ques 
tions,  and  in  a  letter  to  his  friend  Logan,  written 
while  on  a  religious  visit  to  Great  Britain,  seems 
to  have  anticipated  the  conclusion  of  modern 
geologists.  ul  spent,"  he  says,  "some  months, 
especially  at  Scarborough,  during  the  season  at 
tending  meetings,  at  whose  high  cliffs  and  the 
variety  of  strata  therein  and  their  several 
positions  I  further  learned  and  was  confirmed  in 
some  things, — that  the  earth  is  of  much  older  date 
as  to  the  beginning  of  it  than  the  time  assigned 
in  the  Holy  Scriptures  as  commonly  understood, 
which  is  suited  to  the  common  capacities  of  man 
kind,  as  to  six  days  of  progressive  work,  by  which 
I  understand  certain  long  and  competent  periods 
of  time,  and  not  natural  days. "  It  was  sometimes 
made  a  matter  of  reproach  by  the  Anabaptists 
and  other  sects,  that  the  Quakers  read  profane 
writings  and  philosophies,  and  that  they  quoted 
heathen  moralists  in  support  of  their  views. 
Sluyter  and  Dankers,  in  their  journal  of  Ameri 
can*  travels,  visiting  a  Quaker  preacher's  house  at 
Burlington,  on  the  Delaware,  found  '4a  volume 
of  Virgil  lying  on  the  window,  as  if  it  were  a  com 
mon  hand-book ;  also  Helmont's  book  on  Medi 
cine  (Ortus  Medicince,id  est  Initla  Physica  inau- 
dita  progressus  mcdicinw  novus  in  morborwn 
ultionam'  ad  vitam  longam),  whom,  in  an  intro 
duction  they  have  made  to  it,  they  make  to  pass 
for  one  of  their  own  sect,  although  in  his  lifetime 
he  did  not  know  anything  about  Quakers. "  It 
would  appear  from  this  that  the  half-mystical, 
half-scientific  writings  of  the  alchemist  and  philos 
opher  of  Vilverde  had  not  escaped  the  notice  of 
Friends,  and  that  they  had  included  him  in  their 
broad  eclecticism. 

NOTE  79,  page  261. 

41  The  Quaker's  Meeting,"  a  painting  by  E. 
Hemskerck  (supposed  to  be  Egbert  Hemskerck 
the  younger,  son  of  Egbert  Hemskerck  the  old), 
in  which  William  Penn  and  others — among  them 
Charles  II. ,  or  the  Duke  of  York — are  represented 
along  with  the  rudest  and  most  stolid  class  of  the 
British  rural  population  at  that  period.  Hems 
kerck  came  to  London  from  Holland  with  King 


NOTES. 


293 


William  in  1689.  He  delighted  in  wild,  grotesque 
subjects,  such  as  the  nocturnal  intercourse  of 
witches  and  the  temptation  of  St.  Anthony. 
Whatever  was  strange  and  uncommon  attracted 
his  free  pencil.  Judging  from  the  portrait  of 
Penn,  he  must  have  drawn  his  faces,  figures,  and 
costumes  from  life,  although  there  may  be  some 
thing  of  caricature  in  the  convulsed  attitudes  of 
two  or  three  of  the  figures. 

NOTE  80,  page  262. 

In  one  of  his  letters  addressed  to  his  friends  in 
Germany  he  says  :  "  These  wild  men,  who  never 
in  their  life  heard  Christ's  teachings  about  tem 
perance  and  contentment,  herein  far  surpass  the 
Christians.  They  live  far  more  contented  and 
unconcerned  for  the  morrow.  They  do  not  over 
reach  in  trade.  They  know  nothing  of  our  ever 
lasting  pomp  and  stylishness.  They  neither 
curse  nor  swear,  are  temperate  in  food  and  drink, 
and  if  any  of  them  get  drunk,  the  mouth-Chris 
tians  are  at  fault,  who,  for  the  sake  of  accursed 
lucre,  sell  them  strong  drink." 

Again  he  wrote  in  1698  to  his  father  that  he 
finds  the  Indians  reasonable  people,  willing  to  ac 
cept  good  teaching  and  manners,  evincing  an 
inward  piety  toward  God,  and  more  eager,  in  fact, 
to  understand  things  divine  than  many  among 


you  who  in  the  pulpit  teach  Christ  in  word,  but 
by  ungodly  life  deny  him. 

"It  is  evident,"  says  Professor  Seideustecker, 
"Pastorius  holds  up  the  Indian  as  Nature's  un 
spoiled  child  to  the  eyes  of  the  '  European  Babel,' 
somewhat  after  the  same  manner  in  which 
Tacitus  used  the  barbarian  Germani  to  shame 
his  degenerate  countrymen." 

As  believers  in  the  universality  of  the  Saving 
Light,  the  outlook  of  early  Friends  upon  the 
heathen  was  a  very  cheerful  and  hopeful  one. 
God  was  as  near  to  them  as  to  Jew  or  Anglo- 
Saxon  ;  as  accessible  at  Timbuctoo  as  at  Rome  or 
Geneva.  Not  the  letter  of  Scripture,  but  the 
spirit  which  dictated  it,  was  of  saving  effiacy. 
Robert  Barclay  is  nowhere  more  powerful  than  in 
his  argument  for  the  salvation  of  the  heathen, 
who  live  according  to  their  light,  without  know 
ing  even  the  name  of  Christ.  William  Penn 
thought  Socrates  as  good  a  Chrisian  as  Richard 
Baxter.  Early  Fathers  of  the  Church,  as  Origen 
and  Justin  Martyr,  held  broader  views  on  this 
point  than  modern  Evangelicals.  Even  Augu&tine, 
from  whom  Calvin  borrowed  his  theology,  admits 
that  he  has  no  controversy  with  the  admirable 
philosophers,  Plato  and  Plotinus.  "Nor  do  I 
think,"  he  says  in  De  Civ.  Dei.,  lib.  xviii.,  cap. 
47,  "  that  the  Jews  dare  affirm  that  none  belonged 
unto  God  but  the  Israelites." 


INDEX. 


Abraham  Davenport,  226. 

A  Dream  of  Summer,  84. 

After  Election,  253. 

A  Lament,  104. 

A  Lay  of  Old  Time,  158. 

All's  Well,  114. 

A  Memorial,  M.  A.  C.,  207. 

A  Memory,  145. 

A  Mystery,  278. 

Among  the  Hills,  236. 

Amy  Went  worth,  199. 

Andrew  Rykman's  Prayer,  205. 

Angel  of  Patience,  The,  76. 

Angels  of  Buena  Vista,  The,  93. 

Anniversary  Poem,  194. 

Answer,  The,  243. 

April,  125. 

A  Sabbath  Scene,  126. 

A  Sea  Dream,  277. 

A  Spiritual  Manifestation,  255. 

Astrasa,  124. 

Astrsea  at  the  Capitol,  193. 

At  Port  Royal,  195. 

Autumn  Festival,  For  an,  190. 

Autumn  Thoughts,  110. 

A  Woman,  267. 

A  Word  for  the  Hour,  191. 

Barbara  Frietchie,  196. 
Barclay  of  Ury,  95. 
Barefoot  Boy,  The,  143. 
Battle  Autumn  of  1862,  The,  193. 
Benedicite,  122. 
Branded  Hand,  The,  54. 
Brewing  of  Soma,  The,  266. 
Bridal  of  Pennacook,  The,  20. 
Brother  of  Mercy,  The,  220 
Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  188. 
Bryant  on  his  Birthday,  233. 
Burial  of  Barbour,  156. 
Burns,  137. 

Calef  in  Boston,  1692,  110. 
Call  of  the  Christian,  The,  73. 
Cassandra  Southwick,  28. 
Chalkley  Hall,  83. 
Changeling,  The,  221. 
Channing,  102. 
Chapel  of  the  Hermits,  115. 
Chicago,  256. 
Child-Songs,  278. 
Christian  Slave,   The,  44. 
Christian  Tourists,  The,  112. 
Christmas  Carmen,  A,  280. 
Cities  of  the  Plain,  The,  69. 
Clear  Vision,  The,  239. 
Clerical  Oppressors,  43. 
Cobbler  Keezar's  Vision,  197. 
Common  Question,  The,  233. 
Conductor  Bradley,  278. 
Conquest  of  Finland,  The,  158. 


Corn-Song,  The,  91. 

Countess,  The,  201. 

Crisis,  The,  64. 

Cross,  The,  124. 

Crucifixion,  The,  69. 

Cry  of  a  Lost  Soul,  The,  206. 

Curse  of  the  Charter-Breakers,  The,  62. 

Cypress-Tree  of  Ceylon,  The,  84. 

Daniel  Neall,  105. 

Daniel  Wheeler,  104. 

Dead  Ship  of  Harpswell,  224. 

Dedication  (to  SONGS  OF  LABOR),  86. 

Democracy,  82. 

Demon  of  the  Study,  The,  97. 

Derne,  123. 

Disarmament,  267. 

Divine  Compassion,  244. 

Dole  of  Jarl  Thorkell,  The,  240. 

Double-Headed  Snake  of  Newbury,  The,  169. 

Dream  of  Pio  Nono,  The,  139. 

Dream  of  Summer,  A,  84. 

Drovers,  The,  89. 

."  Eine  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott,"  191. 

Elliott,  111. 

Eternal  Goodness,  The,  230. 

Eva,  125. 

Eve  of  Election,  The,  174. 

Exiles,  The,  35. 

Extract  from  "A  New  England  Legend,"  93. 

Ezekiel,  67. 

Familist's  Hymn,  The,  33. 

Farewell   of    a   Virginia   Slave    Mother    to    her 
Daughters,  sold  into  Southern  Bondage,  The,  48. 
Female  Martyr,  The,  71. 
First  Flowers,  The,  159. 
First-Day  Thoughts,  129. 
Fishermen,  The,  89. 
Flowers  in  Winter,  144. 
Follen,  76. 

For  an  Autumn  Festival,  190. 
Forgiveness,  94. 
Fountain,  The,  34. 
Francis  Daniel  Pastoritis,  257. 
Freedom  in  Brazil,  244. 
Friend's  Burial,  The,  275. 
From  Perugia,  189. 
Frost  Spirit,  The,  72. 
Fruit-Gift,  The,  145. 
Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis,  31. 

Garibaldi,  252. 

Garrison  of  Cape  Ann,  The,  16. 

Gift  of  Tritemius,  The,  174. 

G.  L.  S.,  243. 

Golden  Wedding  of  Longwood,  The,  2TO. 

Gone,  106. 

Grave  by  the  Lake,  218. 


296 


INDEX. 


Hampton  Beach,  99. 

Haschisch,  The,  147. 

Healer,  The,  280. 

Hero,  The,  143. 

Hill-top,  The,  107. 

Hive  at  Gettysburg,  The,  253. 

Holy  Land,  The,  66. 

Home  Ballads,  161. 

Howard  at  Atlanta,  253. 

Hermit  of  the  Tnebaid,  The,  136. 

Human  Sacrifice,  The,  80. 

Hunters  of  Men,  The,  43. 

Huskers,  The,  90. 

Hymn,  256. 

Hymn  for  the  Opening  of  Plymouth  Church, 
Minnesota,  281. 

Hymn  for  the  Opening  of  Thomas  Starr  King's 
House  of  Worship,  1864,  2:!4. 

Hymn  for  the  House  of  Worship  at  George 
town,  245. 

Hymns,  70. 

Hymn  sung  at  Christmas,  208. 

Ichabod,  112. 

In  Peace,  122. 

In  Quest,  276. 

In  Remembrance  of  Joseph  Sturge,  176. 

In  School- Days,  251. 

Invocation,  124. 

Italy,  207. 

John  Underbill,  275. 

Kallundborg  Church,  223. 

Kansas  Emigrants,  The,  146. 

Kathleen,  The,  128. 

Kenoza  Lake,  182. 

King  Volmer  and  Elsie,  269. 

Kinsman,  280. 

Knight  of  St.  John,  The,  65. 

Kossuth,  129. 

Lake-side,  The.  107. 

Lament,  A,  104. 

Last  Walk  in  Autumn,  The,  153. 

LausDeo!  221). 

Lay  of  Old  Time,  A,  158. 

Legend  of  St.  Mark,  The,  109. 

Leggett's  Monument,  86. 

Le  Marais  du  Cygne,  179. 

Lines,  145. 

Lines  accompanying  Mamiscripts  presented  to  a 
Friend,  100. 

Lines  for  an  Agricultural  Exhibition,  183. 

Lines  for  the  Burns  Festival,  182. 

Lines  from  a  Letter  to  a  young  Clerical  Friend,  58. 

Lines  (inscribed  to  Friends,  etc.),  146. 

Lines  on  a  Fly-leaf,  244. 

Lines  on  the  Adoption  of  Pinckney's  Resolu 
tions,  62. 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  O.  Torrey,  104. 

Lines  (suggested  by  reading  a  State  Paper),  141. 

Lines,  suggested  by  a  Visit  to  the  City  of  Wash 
ington  in  the  12th  month  of  1845,  57. 

Lines  written  for  the  Anniversary  of  the  1st  of 
August,  at  Milton,  1846,  47. 

Lines  written  for  the  Celebration  of  the  Third 
Anniversary  of  British  Emancipation,  1837,  47. 

Lines  written  for  the  Meeting  of  the  Anti-Slavery 
Society  at  Chatham  street  Chapel,  N.  Y.,  1834, 

Lines  written  in  the  Book  of  a  Friend,  59. 

Lines  written  on  hearing  of  the  death  of  Silas 
Wright,  of  New  York,  100. 

Lines  written  on  reading  Pamphlets  published  by 
Clergymen  against  the  Abolition  of  the  Gallows, 
79. 

Lines  written  on  Reading  the  Message  of  Gover 
nor  Ritner,  of  Pennsylvania,  1836,  45. 


Lucy  Hooper,  101. 
Lumbermen,  The,  92. 

Maids  of  Attitash,  The,  222. 
Mantle  of  St.  John  De  Matha,  The,  227. 
Marguerite,  268. 
Mary  Garvin,  148. 
Massachusetts  to  Virginia.  52. 
Maud  Muller,  151. 
Mayflowers,  The,  156. 
Meeting,  The,  241. 
Memorial,  A,  207. 
Memories,  108. 
Memory,  A,  145. 
Men  of  Old,  The,  112. 
Merrimack,  The,  26. 
Miriam,  246. 

Mithridates  at  Chios,  194. 
MoggMegone  (Parts  I,  II.,  III.),  11,  15,  18. 
Moloch  in  State  Street,  120. 
Moral  Warfare,  The,  49. 
Mountain  Pictures  (Parts  I.,  II.),  204. 
;  My  Birthday,  266. 
My  Dream,  142. 
My  Namesake,  159. 
My  Playmate,  172. 
My  Psalm,  179. 
My  Soul  and  I,  73. 
My  Triumph,  252. 
Mystery,  A,  278. 

Nauhaught,  the  Deacon,  251. 

Naples,  1860,203. 

New  Exodus,  The,  147. 

New  Hampshire,  51. 

New  Wife  and  the  Old,  The,  36. 

New  Year :    addressed   to    the  Patrons  of    the 
Pennsylvania  Freeman,  51. 

Norembega,  250. 
!  Norsemen,  27. 
j  Notes,  285. 

Old  Burying  Ground,  The,  177. 
On  a  Prayer-Book,  180. 

Ou  Receiving  an  Eagle's  Quill  from  Lake  Supe 
rior,  108. 

Our  Countrymen  in  Chains,  40. 
Our  Master.  231. 
Our  River,  204. 
Our  State,  114. 
Over-Heart,  The,  175. 

Psean,  60. 

Pageant,  The,  263. 

Palatine,  The,  225. 

Palestine,  66. 

Palm-Tree,  The,  181. 

Panorama,  The,  131. 

Pass  of  the  Sierra,  The,  157. 

Pastoral  Letter,  The,  46. 

Peace  Autumn,  The,  229. 

Peace  Convention  at  Brussels,  The,  113. 

Peace  of  Europe,  The,  121. 

Pennsylvania  Pilgrim,  The,  258. 

Pentucket,  31. 

Pictures,  123. 

Pine-Tree,  The,  57. 

Pipes  at  Lucknow,  The,  178. 

Poor  Voter  on  Election  Day,  128. 

Prayer  of  Agassiz,  274. 

Prayer-Seeker,  The,  254. 

Preacher,  The,  184. 

Prelude  (Among  the  Hills),  23o. 

Prelude  (Pennsylvania  Pilgrim),  257. 

Prisoner  for  Debt,  The,  78. 

Prisoners  of  Naples,  The,  120. 

Proclamation,  The,  194. 

Proem,  vi. 

Prologue  to  Hazel-Blossoms,  271. 

Prophecy  of  Samuel  Sewall,  164. 

Pumpkin,  The,  98. 


INDEX. 


297 


Quaker  Alumni,  The,  186. 
Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time,  The,  77. 
Questions  of  Life,  119. 
Quest,  In,  5376. 

Randolph  of  Roanoke,  81. 

Ranger,  The,  151. 

Rantoul,  139. 

Raphael,  101. 

Red  River  Voyageur,  The,  182. 

Reformer,  The,  78. 

Relic,  The,  54. 

Remembrance,  127. 

Rendition,  The,  144. 

Revisited,  233. 

Reward,  The,  100. 

River  Path,  The,  207. 

Robin,  The,  267. 

Sabbath  Scene,  A,  126. 

St.  John,  31. 

Seed-Time  and  Harvest,  114. 

Shadow  and  the  Light,  The,  173. 

Ship-Builders,  The,  87. 

Shoemakers,  The,  88. 

Singer,  The,  256. 

Sisters,  The,  183,  268. 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride,  165. 

Slave-Ships,  The,  39. 

Slaves  of  Martinique,  The,  63. 

Snow-Bound,  209. 

Song  of  the  Free,  42. 

Song  of  the  Negro  Boatmen,  195. 

Song  of  Slaves  in  the  Desert,  146. 

Spiritual  Manifestation,  A,  255. 

Stanzas  for  the  Times,  44. 

Stanzas  for  the  Times,  1850,  126. 

Stanzas — Our  Countrymen  in  Chains,  40. 

Star  of  Bethlehem,  The,  69. 

Summer  by  the  Lakeside,  135. 

Summons,  The,  203. 

Sumner,  272. 

Swan  Song  of  Parson  Avery,  The,  170. 

Sycamores,  The,  168. 

Tauler,  140. 

Telling  the  Bees,  167. 

Tent  on  the  Beach,  The,  215. 

Texas,  55. 

"The  Laurels,"  256. 

"  The  Rock  "  in  El  Ghor,  180. 

Thomas  Starr  King,  234. 

Three  Bells,  The,  271. 

Thy  Will  be  Done,  190. 

To  a  Friend,  on  her  Return  from  Europe,  75. 

To  A.  K.,  115. 

To  a  Southern  Statesman,  61. 

To  C.  S.,  146. 

To  Delaware,  96. 

To  Englishmen,  192. 

To  Faneuil  Hall,  56. 

To  Frederick  A.  P.  Barnard,  246. 

To  Fredrika  Bremer,  125. 

To  G.  B.  C.,  183. 

To  John  C.  Fremont,  191. 

To  J.  P.,  84. 

To  J.  T.  F.,  181. 

To  Lvdia  Maria  Child,  254. 

To  Massachusetts,  56. 

To  my  Friend  on  the  Death  of  his  Sister,  106. 

To  my  old  Schoolmaster,  129. 


To  my  Sister,  110. 

To (with  a  Copy  of  Woolman's  Journal),  85. 

To (Lines  written  after  an  Excursion),  122. 

To  Pennsylvania,  156. 

To  Pius  IX.,  111. 

To  Rouge,  83. 

To  Samuel  E.  and  Harriet  W.  Sewall,  192. 

To  the  Memory  of  Charles  B.  Storrs,  103. 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Shipley,  61. 

To  the  Reformers  of  England,  77. 

To  the  Thirty-Ninth  Congress,  230. 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  38. 

ToW.L.  G.,42. 

Trinitas,  177. 

Truce  of  Piscataqua,  The,  170. 

Trust,  128. 

Two  Rabbis,  The,  241. 

Underbill,  John,  275. 

Vanishers,  The,  232. 
Vaudois  Teacher,  The,  73. 
Vesta,  280. 
Voices,  The,  14. 

Waiting,  The,  203. 

Watchers,  The,  192. 

Well  of  Loch  Maree,  110. 

What  of  The  Day  ?  159. 

What  the  Birds  said,  228. 

What  the  Voice  said,  96. 

Wife  of  Manoah  to  her  Husband,  The,  68. 

William  Forster,  138. 

Wish  of  To-Day,  The,  114. 

Witch's  Daughter,  The,  161. 

Woman,  A,  267. 

Word  for  the  Hour,  A,  191. 

Wordsworth,  121. 

World's  Convention,  The,  49. 

Worship,  96. 

Wreck  of  Rivermouth,  216. 

Yankee  Girl,  The,  42. 
Yorktown,  60. 


POEMS  BY 

ELIZABETH  H.  WHITTIER. 

Adams,  John  Quincy,  282. 
Argyle,  The  Dream  of,  281. 

Charity,  284. 
Dr.  Kane  in  Cuba,  283. 
Franklin,  Lady,  283. 
Lady  Franklin,  283. 

Lines  written  on  the  Departure  of  Joseph  Sturge 
from  the  United  States,  282. 

Meeting  Waters,  The,  284. 
Night  and  Death,  283. 
Wedding  Veil,  The,  284. 


MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY'S  WRITINGS. 


"  If  there  is  any  other  American  writer  who  so  thoroughly  understands  girls  as  Mrs.  Whitney  we  have  yet  to 
see  the  evidence  o£  his  or  her  knowledge.  She  writes  as  if  the  experiences  of  her  own  youth  were  as  fresh  in  her 
mind  as  if  that  time  were  only  yesterday ;  and  '  puts  herself  in  the  place '  of  her  heroines  with  an  aptness  and 
fidelity  that  command  the  reader's  constant  admiration.  Accompanying  this  rare  sympathetic  comprehension  of  her 
subject,  there  is  an  air  of  purity  and  refinement  surrounding  all  Mrs.  Whitney  writes  that  we  have  not  detected  in 
any  other  writer  for  the  young.  So  far  as  our  observation  of  her  books  extends,  they  contain  not  one  line,  '  which, 
dying,  she  would  wish  to  blot,1 — no  coarseness,  no  sentiment  of  questionable  morality,  no  gilding  of  vice  or  evil,  no 
apology  for  wrong :  all  are  penetrated  with  a  spirit  of  beautifying  purity,  a  sort  of  moral  clearness,  that  is  most 
delightful  to  recognize." — Literary  World. 

SIGHTS  AND  INSIGHTS: 

PATIENCE     STRONG'S     STORY    OF     OVER     THE    WAY. 
2   vols.     12mo.     $3.OO. 

"  A  strong,  thoughtful,  and  wholesome  book — serious  in  its  undertone,  but  vivacious  and  sometimes  quaintly 
humorous  in  the  prevailing  air.  It  would  be  a  misnomer  to  call  it  a  novel,  and  indeed  it  would  be  hard  to  classify  it, 
combining  as  it  does  some  of  the  features  of  a  romance  with  others  that  are  suggestive  of  still  life  and  of  reminis 
cences  of  incidents  of  travel.  But  it  is  all  very  felicitous,  and  is  especially  graphic  in  its  unfoldings  and  delineations 
of  character,  and  in  its  quiet  pictures  of  life  and  manners.  It  is  rich  in  tranquil  thoughtf ulness,  in  sweet  serious 
ness  ;  and  lessons  concerning  things  spiritual  and  unseen  are  conveyed  with  gentle  and  dreamy  eloquence." — N.  Y. 
Christian  Intelligencer. 

"  The  love  story  that  runs  like  a  silken  thread  through  the  narrative  of  travel  will  be,  to  many,  one  of  its  chief 
charms."— .#.  Y.  Observer. 

''The  book  is  a  charming  one  from  beginning  to  end." — Boston  Transcript. 

A  SUMMER  IN  LESLIE  GOLDTHWAITE'S  LIFE. 

1   vol.   12mo.    Illustrated.     $1.8O. 

"  This  is  a  lovely  story,  full  of  sweet  and  tender  feeling,  kindly  Christian  philosophy,  and  noble  teaching.  It  is 
pleasantly  spiced,  too,  with  quaint  New  England  characters,  and  their  odd,  shrewd  reflections." — Grace  Greenwood. 

"  The  '  summer'  was  spent  among  the  White  Mountains;  and  the  charm  of  their  majesty  and  beauty  rests  on 
Leslie  Goldthwaite's  story." — The  Reader. 

WE    GIRLS:     A    HOME    STORY. 

1   vol.     12mo.     Illustrated.     $1.5O. 

"  Who  that  was  introduced  to  Leslie  Goldthwaite,  that  charming  summer  among  the  White  Mountains,  will  not 
gladly  seize  the  opportunity  of  renewing  the  acquaintance  a"s  she  takes  her  place  with  '  We  Girls,'  less  piquant,  more 
quiet,  perhaps,  than  when  exhilarated  by  the  mountain  breezes,  but  even  more  thoughtful,  and  carrying  out  into 
life,  and  magnetizing  by  her  lovely  example,  all  that  come  within  her  influence?  " — Christian  Register. 

"  Every  girl  from  a  dozen  to  fifteen  years  old  who  has  not  already  enjoyed  it  ought  to  have  the  opportunity  ;  for 
it  is  a  bright,  wholesome  story,  sure  to  do  good,  but  with  nothing  goody  about  it,  and  worthy  to  stand  on  the  same 
shelf  with  Miss  Alcott's  '  Little  Women.'" — Boston  Advertiser. 

RE.A.L     FOLKS. 

1  vol.    12mo.    Illustrated.    $1.50. 

"  The  author  takes  the  girls  of  two  families.  One  group  of  them  is  brought  up  in  an  artificial,  superficial, 
fashionable,  hot-bed  way,  and  turn  out  weak,  miserable,  insipid  characters,  running  through  aimless,  selfish,  un 
worthy  careers.  The  other  group  of  girls  is  trained  into  solid,  honest,  real  ways,  and  come  out  into  true,  substan- 
cial,  wholesome,  real  characters,  thoroughly  serviceable,  and  every  way  refreshing  to  look  upon.  It  is  a  grand  book, 
and  will  do  a  world  of  good  among  real,  sensible  people." — Watchman  and  Reflector  (Boston). 

THE    OTHER    GIRLS. 

1    vol.     12mo.     $2.OO. 

"A  purer,  sweeter  story  of  noble,  self-sacrificing  lives  it  would  be  hard  to  name.  Mrs.  Whitney  deserves  the 
heartiest  gratitude  of  all  young  girls  for  her  efforts  to  teach  them  the  true  meaning  and  character  of  life  ;  to  show 
them  that  duty,  however  humble,  needs  only  to  be  performed  to  make  it  ennobling." — Hartford  Post. 

"  The  interest  of  the  story  never  flags  :  it  is  full  of  incident  and  action,  and  is  eminently  natural  and  lifelike. 
Scattered  through  its  pages  are  bits  of  fresh  thought  and  helpful  suggestion,  which,  by  their  kindly  wisdom,  no  less 
than  by  their  terse  expression,  are  fitted  to' become  proverbs  and 'household  words.'  Of  all  the  conceptions  of 
young  womanhood  which  fiction  has  given  us  we  know  of  few  BO  natural  and  lovable  as  Bel  Bree." — Boston 
Journal. 

PANSIES  :     A  VOLUME  OF  POEMS. 

1   vol.     16mo.     $1.5O. 

"  To  those  who  arc  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Whitney's  prose  writings,  we  need  scarcely  say  that  she  is,  in  her  poetry 
RS  well,  thoroughly  genuine,  and  true  to  Nature  and  herself.  Her  poems  are,  indeed,  a  sort  of  counterpart  of  her 
stories.  They  exhibit  the  reflective  side  of  a  mind  whose  keen  powers  of  perception  the  stories  make  so  amply  man 
ifest.  A  deep  piety  is  also  one  of  Mrs.  Whitney's  poetic  characteristics  ;  and  we  should  have  to  seek  far,  this  side  of 
George  Herbert,  for  poems  in  which  the  Christian  Muse  finds  loftier  expression.  The  poet  has  well  named  her  little 
book;  for  each  of  her  gathered  'Pansies'is  'fora  thought'  that  has  blossomed  sweetly  into  words." — Buffalo 
Courier. 

JAMES  R.   OSGOOD  &  Co.,  Boston. 


"LITTLE  CLASSIC"  HAWTHORNE, 


This  edition  of  the  Works  of  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  is  uniform  with  the  "  LITTLE 
CLASSICS, ".which  have  gained  universal  popularity.  It  is  printed  from  new  electrotype 
plates,  and  each  volume  has  an  original  vignette  Illustration.  The  edition  comprises  Twenty- 
one  Volumes,  as  follows  : — 


1.  The  Scarlet  Letter. 

2.  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables. 
3,    4.  The  Marble  Faun. 

5.  The  Blithedale  Romance. 
6,    7.  Twice-Told  Tales. 

8.  The  Snow  Image. 
9,  10.  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse. 
11.  Our  Old  Home. 


12,  13.  English  Note-Books. 

14, 15.  American  Note-Books. 

16,  17.  French  and  Italian  Note-Books. 

18.  Septimius  Felton. 

19.  True    Stories     from    History    and 

Biography. 

20.  The  Wonder-Book. 

21.  Tanglewood  Tales. 


Neatly  bound  in  Cloth.    Price,  $1.25  a  volume. 


"Hawthorne's  art  was  so  perfect  and  his  fancy  so  exuberant  that  the  children  of  his  brain  are  exempt  from  tht 
brief  duration  of  life  which  usually  is  the  fate  of  tales  of  romance.  His  colors  do  not  fade,  because,  like  the  Ola 
Masters,  he  had  conquered  the  art  \sf.  making  them  of  the  most  durable  material,  and  of  laying  them  on  with  rare 
skill.  His  English  is  as  transparent,  flowing,  robust,  graceful,  and  wondrously  flexible  as  it  seemed  to  a  generation 
ago  ;  and  for  this  roason  the  creations  which  he  has  embalmed  in  it  will  be  as  popular  with  the  next  generation  as 
they  were  with  the  last,  and  his  writings  will  rank  as  classics  with  after  generations."  —  The  Christian  Intelligencer 
(New 


"  These  make  a  handsome  display  on  the  library  shelf,  and  the  whole  cost  so  little  that  it  cannot  be  doubted  that 
many  new  readers  will  hasten  to  embrace  the  opportunity  thus  offered  of  becoming  acquainted  with  the  great  prose 
master-pieces  of  American  literature.  .  .  .  Nothing  could  exceed  its  neatness,  daintiness,  and  convenience."  — 
Appletons*  Journal.  , 


EMERSON'S    WORKS. 

"LITTLE  CLASSIC"  EDITION. 

The  popular  favor  shown  to  the  "LITTLE  CLASSICS"  and  to  the  "Little  Classic" 
edition  of  HAWTHORNE'S  Works  has  suggested  the  propriety  of  issuing  in  the  same  tasteful  and 
inexpensive  style  the  works  of  MR.  EMERSON.  The  rapid  sale  of  his  latest  volume  of  Essays, 
"Letters  and  Social  Aims,"  gives  most  ample  and  gratifying  proof  that  his  hold  upon  the 
esteem  and  admiring  interest  of  the  American  public  has  never  been  stronger  than  to-day. 
This  "  LITTLE  CLASSIC  "  Edition  is  printed  from  entirely  new  electrotype  plates,  and  com 
prises  the  following  volumes  : — 


1.  Essays  :    First  Series. 

2.  Essays  :    Second  Series. 

3.  Miscellanies. 

4.  Representative  Men, 


5.  English  Traits. 

6.  The  Conduct  of  Life. 

7.  Society  and  Solitude. 

8.  .Poems. 


Price,  $1.50  per  volume. 


"  More  generations  than  two  or  than  three  will  owe  him  much  for  some  of  the  most  genuine  poetry  that  our  lan- 
Erua^e  has  to  show,  and  for  a  collection  of  prose- writing  informed  with  poetry,  the  fearless  and  serene  sincerity  of 
which,  the  wisdom,  the  sound  sense,  the  humor,  the  wit,  the  marvelous  insight  of  which,  make  it  a  literary  treasure 
that  may  well  move  our  gratitude."— The  Nation  (New  York). 

%*  For  sale  by  Booksellers.     Sent,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  Publishers, 

JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    &    Co.,   Boston. 


LITTLE    CLASSICS. 


A  Series  of  handy  volumes,  containing  many  of  the  choicest  SHORT  STORIES,  SKETCHES, 
and  POEMS  in  English  Literature.     The  following  list  gives  a  part  of  their  contents  : — 


I.— EXILE. 

Ethan  Brand Hawthorne 

A  Night  in  a  Workhouse Jas.  Greenwood 

The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat  Bret  Harte 

The  Man  without  a  Country Hale 

Flight  of  a  Tartar  Tribe De  Quincey 

II.— INTELLECT. 

The  House  and  the  Brain Bulwer 

The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher Poe 

Chops,  the  Dwarf Dickens 

Wnkefield Hawthorne 

"  The  Captain's  Story Rebecca  Harding  Davis 

III.—  TRAGEDY. 

•'he  Murders  in  Rue  Morgue Poe 

.'he  Lauson  Tragedy De  Forest 

Jhe  Bell  Tower  , Herman  Melville 

Jhe  Kathayan  Slave Mrs.  Judson 

Uhe  Vision  of  Sudden  Death De  Quincey 

IV.— LIFE. 

<Rab  and  his  Friends. Dr.  John  Brown 

A  Romance  of  Real  Life W.  D.  Howells 

The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp Bret  Harte 

.  Beauty  and  the  Beast Willis 

Dreamthorp  Alexander  Smith 

A  Bachelor's  Reverie D.  G.  Mitchell 

MyChateaux G.  W.  Curtis 

Dream  Children CharlesLamb 

Gettysburg Abraham  Lincoln 

V.-LAUGHTER. 

A  Christmas  Carol Dickens 

A  Dissertation  upon  Roast  Pig Lamb 

The  Skeleton  in  the  Closet Hale 

Sandy  Wood's  Sepulchre Hugh  Miller 

A  Visit  to  the  Asylum  for  Decayed  Punsters Holmes 

NealMalone William  Carleton 

VI.— LOVE. 

Love  and  Skates Theodore -Winthrop 

The  Maid  of  Malines Bulwer 

The  Story  of  Ruth From  the  Bible 

The  Rise  of  Iskander Disraeli 

VII.— ROMANCE. 

Iris Holmes 

The  Rosicrucian    Miss  Mulock 

The  South  Breaker Harriet  Prescott  Spofford 

The  Snow  Storm "  Christopher  North  " 

The  King  of  the  Peak Allan  Cunningham 

VIII.— MYSTERY. 

The  Ghost W.  D.  O'Connor 

The  Four-Fifteen  Express Amelia  B.  Edwards 

The  Signal  Man Dickens 

The  Haunted  Ship Cunningham 

A  Raft  that  no  Man  Made Robt.  T.  S.  Lowell 

The  Birthmark Hawthorne 

IX.— COMEDY. 

Barney  O'Reirdon,  the  Navigator Lover 

Bluebeard's  Ghost Thackeray 

The  Picnic  Party  Horace  Smith 

Johnny  Darbyshire William  Howitt 

The  Box  Tunnel Reade 


X.— CHILDHOOD. 

A  Dog  of  Flanders Ouida 

The  King  of  the  Golden  River Ruskin 

The  Lady  of  Shalott Miss  Phelps 

Majorie  Fleming Dr.  John  Brown 

TheLostChild ... Henry  Kin  gsley 

A  Child's  Dream  of  a  Star Dickens 

XI-HEROISM. 

Little  Briggs  and  I Fitz-Hugh  Ludlow 

Ray Harriet  Prescott  Spofford 

Three  November  Days . . , B.  F.  Taylor 

A  Chance  Child Isabella  Mayo 

A  Leaf  in  the  Storm Ouida 

XH.— FORTUNE. 

The  Gold  Bug  Poe 

The  Fairy  Finder Lover 

Murad  the  Unlucky Maria  Edgeworth 

The  Children  of  the  Public Hale 

The  Three-fold  Destiny •  -  -  -  Hawthorne 

Xm,— NARRATIVE    POEMS. 

The  Deserted  Village Goldsmith 

The  Ancient  Mariner Coleridge 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon Byron. 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine Mrs.  Norton 

The  Sensitive  Plant Shelley 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agues Keatg 

Paradise  and  the  Peri Moore 

The  Raven Poe 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor Longfellow 

Tarn  O'Shanter .  . .. Burnt 

Horatius Macaulaj 


XIV.- LYRICAL    POEMS. 

Locksley  Hall Tenn5  son 

My  Lost  Youth  Longfellow 

Intimations  of  Immortality Wordsworth 

Ode  to  Happiness Lowell 

L' Allegro  and  II  Penseroso Milton 

Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard Gray 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs Hood 

The  Bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee Scott 

At  Port  Royal Whittier 

How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to 

Aix ' Browning 

Ode  on  the  Duke  of  Wellington Tennyson 

Commemoration  Ode Lowell 

And  many  other  poems. 

XV.— MINOR    POEMS. 

The  Chambered  Nautilus Holmes 

The  Children's  Hour Longfellow 

The  Courtin' Lowell 

Evelyn  Hope Browning 

Highland  Mary Burns 

KublaKhan Coleridge 

My  Child Pierpont 

My  Psalm Whittier 

And  numerous  other  poems. 

XVI.-AUTHORS. 

Containing  Brief  Biographies  of  all  the  Authors  from 
whose  writings  the  fifteen  preceding  volumes  of  "Little 
Classics  ''  have  been  taken.  With  complete  index. 


16  vols.  32mo.     Tastefully  bound.     Price,  Cloth,  $1.00  each  ;   Half  Calf,  $2.50. 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    &    Co.,    Boston. 


THE  VEST-POCKET  SERIES. 


These  miniature  volumes  are  of  the  same  general  order  with  the  "Little  Classics," 
which  have  proved  so  universally  popular,  but  smaller  every  way,  except  in  type.  Their 
typographical  beauty,  fine  paper,  tasteful  binding,  dainty  size,  and,  yet  more,  the  sterling  and 
popular  character  of  their  contents,  have  gained  for  them  a  general  welcome. 

Vol.  1.  Snow-Bound.     By  J.  G.  WHITTIER. 

2.  Evangeline.    By  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

3.  Power,  Wealth,  Illusions.    By  R.  W.  EMERSON. 

4.  Culture,  Behavior,  Beauty.    By  R.  w.  EMERSON. 

5.  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish.    By  H.  w.  LONGFELLOW. 

6.  Enoch  Arden.    By  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

7.  Nathaniel  Hawthorne.    By  JAMES  T.  FIELDS. 

8.  A  Day's  Pleasure.   By  W.  D.  HOWELLS. 

9.  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal.    By  J.  R.  LOWELL. 

10.  A  Christmas  Carol.    By  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

11.  Lady  G-eraldine's  Courtship.    By  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

0 

12.  The  Deserted  Village,  and  The  Traveller.    By  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

13.  Rab  and  his  Friends,  and  Marjorie  Fleming.    By  Dr.  JOHN  BROWN. 

14.  The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  v   By  s.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

15.  Barry  Cornwall  and  his  Friends.    By  JAMES  T.  FIELDS. 

(OTHER  VOLUMES  IN  PREPARATION.) 

ALL,  EXCEPT  VOLS.  3  AND  4,   ILLUSTRATED.     TASTEFULLY  BOUND  IN  CLOTH. 

PEICE,   50  CENTS  EACH. 


"  Osgood's  '  Vest-Pocket  Series '  deserve  the  heartiest  appreciation,  and  will  doubtless  receive  it.  They  are 
small,  dainty,  sightly,  and— rarest  quality  of  small  books— legible.  The  type  is  as  large  as  the  largest  used  in  the 
'  Christian  Union,^  and  yet,  by  an  excusable  disregard  of  the  traditional  width  of  margin,  each  little  page  contains 
a  great  deal  of  rea'ding-matter.  We  hope  the  series  will  be  enlarged  as  long  as  good  material  exists  with  which  to 
extend  it.  Generally  a  book  is  companionable  in  exact  ratio  with  its  unobtrusiveness,  and  the  faculty  it  has  for 
being  always  with  us.  A  traveler  without  trunk  or  valise  might  carry  a  dozen  of  these  little  books  without  disar 
ranging  his  pockets,  and  be  sure  of  that  literary  enjoyment  which  the  stores  of  train-boy  or  railway-station  news 
agent  never  afford."—  The  Christian  Union. 

"  For  pocket  volumes,  to  be  carried  about  on  journeys  and  read  by  snatches,  to  be  taken  to  the  country  or  sea 
shore  in  summer,  or  to  be  read  by  the  fireside  in  winter,  these  little  books  satisfy  all  the  requirements  of  convenient 
size,  attractive  exterior,  and  intrinsic  interest  and  value.'"1 — Boston  Journal. 

"The  'Vest-Pocket  Series'  is  a  most  skillfully  contrived  and  neatly  arranged  plan  for  bringing  the  best  prose 
and  verse  into  the  reach  of  all  readers.  That  it  will  succeed  is  as  certain  as  that  it  ought  to  succeed,  and  the  spread 
of  our  best  literature  is  a  missionary  work  than  which  no  other  whatever  is  more  important.  By  such  publications 
as  these  the  Osgoods  are  doing  a  greater  benefit  to  the  country  than  can  be  calculated." — Hartford  Courant. 

"  These  tiny  books  are  not  made  by  means  of  fine  type  and  flimsy  paper.  The  paper  is  heavy  and  firm,  and  the 
tvpe  is  wonderfully  clear  and  legible.  In  fact,  it  looks  large.  These  beautiful  little  books  must  be  accorded  rank  as 
the  gold  dollars  of  the  currency  of  elegant  letters.  Yet  they  cost  but  fifty  cents  apiece. "—  Congregationalist  ( Boston). 

"The  most  attractive  of  all  the  new  books  of -the  season."— Louisville  Courier-Journal. 

"  We  have  rarely  seen  anything  more  exquisite  in  the  shape  of  miniature  editions  of  authors  than  the  '  Vest- 
Pocket  Series.'"— New  York  Evening  Mail. 

"Volumes  of  such  dainty  shape  that  one  might  suppose  them  ordered  for  the  inhabitants  of  Lilliput.  Queen 
Mab  could  be  fancied  wisely  perusing  such  fairy-like  tomes,  as  she  lazily  lounges  in  a  white  lily's  hollow." — Chicago 
Tribune. 

JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    &    Co.,    Boston. 


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